


Lamplighter

by the_years_between_us



Category: The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2018-10-26 03:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 76,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10778418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_years_between_us/pseuds/the_years_between_us
Summary: Stella gets a call from Reed directly following the final episode of The Fall S3.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story contains references and descriptions of self-harm.
> 
> Big thanks to Katlyn, @TheRobbinsGang, @JenSchwartz21, and @SpookyHadley for all of their encouragement and advice!

Endless quiet. Stella settles into the stale air of her kitchen surrounded by it. Tilting her neck, she attempts to relieve some of the tension living there.

 

Dust adorns the countertops in the wake of her absence and it bothers her, but not enough to wipe it clean. She’ll do that tomorrow. Or the next day, it’s not as if she hasn’t got the time. Realistically it’s only a week or so until she returns to work but from her spot on the stagnant kitchen stool, she might as well be looking for an oasis across a vast stretch of desert, the end of the week sparkling at the edge of the horizon, alluring and seemingly unreachable. She supposes she should be grateful for the reduced timeframe considering they’d wanted to give her two weeks. One week she can handle.

 

So she shifts in her seat and tries to get used to the idleness of having nothing particularly important to do, sips her wine, takes inventory of her surroundings, makes a mental list of things she’ll tend to the following day. Somewhere nearby her neighbor’s dog sounds off into the dark. It draws her back to the discomfort of her reality, sat uselessly in her flat tasked with the responsibility of taming her thoughts, which drift compulsively to Belfast without approval. Yanking the reins, she’s well versed in this dance, damming the deluge of her own mind.

 

And it works, if only for a moment, as she forces herself to take in the pitiful sight of the lifeless flowers before her, resigns herself to collect the petals scattered and shriveling at the base and toss them into the bin. Even the small task is exhausting so afterwards she sighs, washes her hands and returns to the comfort of her wine. Logically she knows she needs this time, needs the rest, her bones feel like lead. But as she slides carefully back into her seat, it’s already buzzing in her ears, inching up her spine. Belfast thrums through the stillness of her existence, irritatingly persistent.

 

Ideally, she’d like to place the entire experience, all of the ugly details, into a small box. Shove it into a corner so she can function because the space it’s taking up inside her is unbearable and it’s been so long since she was this full. People always assume that emptiness is a curse but that’s only because they’ve never experienced the sensation of drowning. Every time she finds enough room in herself to breathe the last few weeks flood her lungs, and it's got her wondering how long she can hold it. Swallowing the liquid in her glass, she knows it’s not the release she needs. Needs. Does not need.

 

Alone at last, her eyes begin to fill and she wills herself not to dissolve into the cracks between the floorboards. Remain solid. She's survived worse and it will pass, it always does. If nothing else, Paul Spector, wherever he may be, does not deserve the pleasure of having put her in such a precarious state. And yet she can’t help feeling like her glue’s come loose, back at square one. Can’t shake the foreboding sensation that something’s been stolen from her, something that she’s worked very hard to attain, gone.

 

Sitting in her empty flat, pristine fixtures and sleek granite gracing the tired drywall, she feels the striking loss of it.

 

Then there’s the buzzing of her mobile that cuts through her twisting thoughts and she’s fiercely grateful for the reprieve. She’s been home for all of five minutes and already needs an exit strategy, needs to go for a walk, needs to get some perspective, needs to get anywhere else where her thoughts aren't quite so loud. The buzzing continues from the small device, an innocent arms-reach away and Stella hopes it’s the Met, short-staffed and desperately needing her back even though it’s undoubtedly ‘too soon.’ She works up the energy to lean in for it and a quick glance tells her it’s Reed and her reprieve is short lived.

 

Small pixels of color outlining Reed’s name stare up at her unblinkingly and give rise to several conflicting emotions at once. Curiosity, defeat, thrill, regret. She thinks of the text messages she’d sent, left idly without response, all of her unanswered calls.

 

Looking back, those last few weeks in Belfast were starkly devoid of Reed's presence and it didn't go unnoticed. Stella had gone as far as to contact her colleagues who informed her that Reed was “taking some time.” While Stella wasn't egotistical enough to attribute her absence entirely to their misguided night - it seemed as though they’d recovered well enough in the following days - the timing was suspect and had Stella feeling uneasy. Of course it was more likely guilt over everything with Rose, they both felt it, Stella understood. Really, she did. But it wasn't until she was laying there in that hospital bed, bruised and almost broken that she could bring herself to admit that understanding or not, she wanted her there. She hadn't expected such an ally in Reed but found one nonetheless and for a moment, surrounded by machines and flickering fluorescent lights, she felt the hot hand of anger grip at her battered insides. Because naturally she’d managed to build a life around not needing people and here she was yearning after a practical stranger. Absurd.

 

The entire experience has left her a bit removed from herself, and a few beats pass as she simply gazes at the name on the screen, considers silencing the call. After all, she has no idea what she wants to say, why Reed would be calling now, how this should go. How had she become so absent?

 

She presses accept.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hi,” comes Reed’s lilting voice over the line and that breath Stella had been looking for finally rushes through her veins. “It's uh - Reed, I'm sorry I've not returned your calls,” she pauses in a halted sort of way and Stella thinks she might continue but nothing comes.

 

“Thought I might've scared you off.”

 

There's a noncommittal hum on Reed’s end and Stella can almost hear her smiling over the phone because it's not really a yes, but it's not really a no either.

 

“Well, I heard you might be home,” she says it as a question, evasively changing course. “Rose mentioned…” Reed trails off leaving more silence in her wake and Stella hears all of the words she doesn't say with astonishing clarity.

 

“Only just, actually, barely been through the mail,” she tries at sounding lighthearted but it only illuminates the lack of humor in her after such an exhausting period. Awkwardness settles between them and as nice as it is to hear Reed’s voice on the line, Stella doesn't particularly care to spend her energy wading through it much longer. “Is there a reason you called?”

 

“It's just... I feel I owe you an apology. I vanished a bit at the end there and that isn't like me.”

 

“I assumed you needed some space.” It's not meant to be harsh but honest. And Reed very clearly needed space. From Stella. From the case. From pain _._ Stella isn't exactly sure which she would choose or if there's even a difference between them.

 

“You could say that,” Reed breathes out a laugh but it's colored with bitterness and thoughts left unsaid. She clears her throat. “Quite a bit of space, I've returned to London.”

 

Stella isn't expecting that. “Permanently?”

 

“Yes. Belfast,” Reed begins searching for her words, “wasn't right anymore.”

 

“Ah, I see, Croydon calls,” Stella says unable to resist delving into dangerous territory.

 

“Not exactly. It's a bit of a long story and if you're up to it, I thought we might get dinner.”

 

“Does tomorrow evening work?”

  
“Sounds lovely.” She sounds warm and it leaves Stella smiling. She's missed her.

 

* * *

 

London is bright as she walks towards the Met. She's bound to be reprimanded for returning so soon but the marble clacking beneath her steps breathes a bit of air back into her lungs so she carries on in the direction of her office. A few familiar faces pass and she lifts the muscles behind her eyes enough to constitute a greeting. _How many of them know_ , she wonders. Polite smiles plastered to their faces. Fucking irritating.

 

She enters her office and sees stacks of paperwork and files abandoned from her departure. Fingering a few pages under a manila folder, she takes in the visual representation of everything she's missed and it leaves her a little breathless.

 

“Mam?”

 

A voice sounds behind her and she sees the fresh-faced James Colgan before her looking rather confused. Out of everyone who could possibly find her immediately upon arrival, she’s at least glad it’s James. Before the review he'd been something like her right hand man, young, and inexperienced, possessing the sort of fight that fades with time. It always does.

 

“Good morning, James,” she says removing her coat and settling her things into place like she belongs there. She does belong here but it doesn't feel like it. She works up an amused glance and throws it over her shoulder. “Don't look too shocked to see me.”

 

James blushes good-naturedly and she’s glad to know that not too much has changed in her absence. “Good morning, mam. Forgive me, it's just that CS Spencer said you wouldn't be back until Monday next.”

 

“I'm sure she did,” Stella answers with a quiet resolve hanging her coat on the stand. “Regardless, would you mind collecting my messages and briefing me on the status of the Branson case? Say in an hour?”

 

“Of course, mam.” The younger man nods and makes to exit when she stops him.

 

“James, if CS Spencer happens to ask,” Stella's eyes zero in on his and rest there a beat before she continues, “I'm just collecting a few things to take home for the week.”

 

“Right,” he smiles conspiratorially, glad to have the trust of Stella’s secret no matter how small. And then something in the way he holds himself changes, he softens and looks at her for a moment longer than she's comfortable. “It's good to have you back, mam.” Something in the way he says it tells Stella that he knows. He knows how the Spector case resolved - of course he knows, everyone surely does and the very thought sets her mind on fire. But then she catches his eye and a certain note of worry lends itself to compassion and while it might normally irritate her on anyone else, the young man has a kindness about him and she’s surprised to find his support endearing.

  
“It's good to be back,” she replies. “And thank you.”

 

* * *

  

Stella manages to escape the Met a few hours later without causing much of a stir. She brings home enough paperwork to keep her busy for the next couple of days at least. She's not much for keeping house but she looks around at her flat and it could certainly use the attention. Unable to tolerate a certain kind of mess for long, she’ll surely see to it and that should take a while. She could use a swim and some new trousers… Then of course there are her plans for this evening and she tries to ignore the adrenaline prickling in her fingertips as soon as the thought crosses her mind. Dropping her work on the sitting room table, she moves to the kitchen to put on some tea.

 

The surprise of Reed’s call has been rattling around in Stella since the night before and although reluctant to admit it, she's anxious to see her. At the top of the list sits the nagging fear that she'd royally fucked up the friendship they'd formed over the previous months. They were both in a vulnerable place that night and she should have seen that, should have known better than to take advantage of how badly they both wanted to feel something, anything else. Maybe it's selfish but with all of the guilt she's carrying around inside her, she'd like to be absolved of this one.

 

In their time together, Reed has always been straightforward and she can't honestly reconcile why she would vanish without an explanation. Perhaps more than most, Stella understands the desire to disappear, pick up and leave without a second thought. She would have understood. Instead she'd been met with nothing and truth be told it put her on edge. Even now, part of her resents it. By no means is she unshakable but very few things (or people) have the power to do so. And it's not that she doesn't trust Reed with that privilege, instinct singled her out almost instantly for it. It's just that… they'd been in it together and Stella didn't see the silence coming, didn't anticipate the stark absence or the swell of disappointment that Reed left in her wake.

 

Wrapped in a haze of rhythmic beeping and scratchy sheets from the hospital bed, she’d made terms with the fact that perhaps her instincts were slipping. Along with everything else. Maybe she’d read their relationship wrong, made their connection out to be something more than it was. Instead of something disposable. And maybe she shouldn't be so surprised. After all, she’d read a lot of things wrong, mistakes piled high, an assortment of fractured people crumbling around her in that last week.

 

Humbling.

 

But she's accustomed to dismantling herself, building and tearing down, a fortifying wrecking ball to her own steel beams. This is no different. Demolition complete, she’ll clear away the debris and rebuild, move on, she’ll have dinner with Reed. The nature of their relationship aside, she's excited to see her and intensely curious about the details surrounding her decision to relocate. “Belfast wasn't right anymore” leaves a lot to be uncovered.

 

It will be good.

 

Her stomach clenches a little.

  
The whistling of the kettle pulls her from her thoughts and she resolves not to think of Reed for the rest of the afternoon.

 

* * *

 

Stella fusses with the tuck of her shirt as she enters the restaurant. She's wearing her charcoal grey leather skirt and a silk blouse paired with heels. Nothing beyond what she wears any other day but she's nervous about it and fidgeting. It's just dinner and it's just Reed and she has nothing to be upset over - she's being ridiculous, she's not an adolescent.

 

She's frustrated as fuck.

 

Deep breath.

 

Glancing around the restaurant, she approaches the hostess.

 

“Table for two under ‘Reed Smith,’” she tells them removing her coat. She's never been here before. It's a dimly lit intimate setting, probably Italian food. Reed’s suggestion.

 

It looks nice.

 

There's a tap on her shoulder and she turns to see dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin.

 

Warm light dances across Reed’s features and dressed in black, she is as striking as ever. Eyes wide and waiting, her presence radiates a particular vulnerability that draws Stella in at once, as though they were old friends rather than relatively new ones. She still manages to look forceful and gentle all over. And with the clarity of diving into a still pool, Stella’s acutely aware of why she’d been attracted to her in the first place.

 

Involuntarily, reflexive and undeniable.

 

Reed self-consciously swipes at her hair, she's wearing it in a tousled curtain around her shoulders. Stella notices she's without her helmet or typical leather jacket in tow. Just a sleek black top against dark trousers and -

 

“Hi,” Reed’s smiling shyly at her now and Stella reprimands herself for getting carried away at the mere sight of her. It's ridiculous. She's acting ridiculous.

 

“Hello,” Stella greets her and steps forward into distant hug, a little apprehensive after feeling so foolish. Self-deprecatingly, she wonders how see through she is. “It's good to see you.”

 

“It's good to see you, too. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Table’s right this way, ladies.”

 

Both women follow the hostess to their table. A small tea light candle sits innocently in the center and without preamble they're across from each other wondering what’s next. Reed is taking her in and Stella observes her, thinks she looks different somehow. She can't put her finger on it but she senses it all the same. Something in her feels more concrete and less torrential. Perhaps all this space from Belfast has been good for her. She hopes so.

 

She wishes she could find that.

 

Looking at Reed now she thinks for the first time in a long time that it might be possible.

 

“It's been a while. How are you doing?” Stella ventures diplomatically and Reed lets loose some nervous laughter.

 

“How about something easier first?”

 

“Wine then?”

 

“You read my mind,” she says letting her voice slide down to the octave where smooth things live, like velvet and cream and silk, and Stella can tell from the way she’s gauging her reaction that it’s intentional, that she's testing the water. Stella finds herself smirking before she can make an active choice whether or not to do so. _You read my mind._ Ironic really, if she could read her mind this all might be easier. Everything from the choice of venue to Reed's twinkling eye tells her to read this a certain way, a way that ends with tangled sheets and waking up with that satisfying tinge of exhaustion deep in your muscles the next day. But she's been wrong before and that mistake taught her that Reed is not worth risking, at least not in the way that Stella’s used to risking people. Sex was sex and she has plenty of outlets for it, but friendships proved particularly rare. So she’ll ere on the side of caution, won't take the evening for more than it is or more than it might be. A meeting between friends, former colleagues. Catching up.

 

She's not usually so careful and it makes her feel clumsy. Overanalyzing stupid things like how she's sitting and whether or not her eyes read _fuck me_ as loud as her mind is telling her they do. It's going to be a long dinner if she can't figure out how to be un-obsessed with getting her into bed.

 

With a flick of her hand, she summons their waiter and Reed chooses a bottle of red. The waiter tells them they've chosen wisely, jots it down and disappears.

 

Alone again, silence swells between them thick with time spent apart. Reed looks relieved to see her, if not a little nervous, while Stella holds a contented questioning stare trying very hard to contain the parts of her that are not contented. She decides the best course of action is to focus on her curiosity, how Reed managed to end up in London, why the abrupt change, why she hadn't said anything. Over the past few weeks a thousand questions have pooled in her mind, quickly morphing into a choppy sea and slapping at the walls of her psyche when she least expected. She draws on that now, concentrates on each droplet, each question swimming around in there, she finds she's not as desperate to let loose the flood as she might have thought.

 

Even in awkward silence, batting away the impulse to take this too far, she's mostly just happy to simply see Reed sitting across from her looking so whole. Something deep inside of her manages to settle and unhinge all at the same time and she can't tell which is which exactly. Unnerving. Comforting. So many pieces of her seem to be sliding around, bumping and scraping into each other trying to make a picture, one that intrigues her. She hates that it intrigues her because she's not ready to see it.

 

Distracting herself under the assumption of perusing the menu, the waiter finally returns with their wine before abandoning them to their silence once more. Stella lifts her glass towards the small flame flickering in the middle of their table and Reed touches her glass gently against it. Their eyes meet and Stella thinks that her friend glows in the warm light afforded by their cozy table. From there her thoughts turn terribly syrupy, sticky and warm, difficult to wash away. She desperately needs to get a grip.

 

“Nice place,” Stella says after taking a sip and deterring her thoughts to safety.

 

“I’ve never been, it was a recommendation from my sister.” Stella lifts an eyebrow in question and Reed continues, “I’m staying with her in Pembridge until I find something suitable. She’s been incredibly helpful... Restaurant recommendations included,” she teases, scrunching her nose a little and it’s the sort of contagious carefree expression she’s decidedly not used to seeing on her. Stella can't help the smile tugging at her lips.

 

Then there’s something else that catches her attention, particularly the lack of ‘we’ in Reed’s explanation. She’s never been entirely sure about her home situation - husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, alive, dead... Just Charlotte and Jane. A surge of worry itches at the back of her neck that Reed hasn’t mentioned them.

 

“So it’s just you then?”

 

“Me and the girls,” she clarifies and thank god. Reed and the girls. Reed and the girls, and no one else. Interesting.

 

Stella pushes that aside and tries to focus on the more tangible parts of Reed’s story like her sister, the move, the city, her children.

 

“Do they like it so far?”

 

“It’s been a bit of an adjustment but I think they’re coming around to it,” she says as if she’s mulling it over, reliving the last few days, reassuring herself. “Another month or two and we’ll be more settled in. Once they find some friends, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

 

Friends. Stella’s never been one for friends, even less so as she’s gotten older and yet here she is now, one sitting right in front of her. A lovely friend, her first in some time. And she’s already tried to fuck her once and can't stop thinking about trying to do it again. Jesus, what was wrong with her…

 

“Making friends is easy at their age,” Stella encourages. At least for most it is. She's seen it happen under most normal circumstances, knows it's possible. “Children have a way of finding each other.”

 

“They do don't they…”

 

The way Reed says it and lingers leaves Stella feeling melancholy, nostalgic for something she never truly had or understood. And then there's a particular emotion gleaming around the rims of Reed’s eyes as she looks at her, candlelight dancing in her brilliant round irises and it makes Stella wonder what they’re even talking about at this point.

 

“Well, whatever's brought you all this way, I can’t pretend I’m not glad to see you,” she says instead and she means it. In any context, regardless of whatever this is. After everything with Spector, a friend would probably be good for her. Even a beautiful, seemingly unattached friend, she thinks before scolding herself for what must be the hundredth time since laying eyes on her. Truthfully, it would be a lot easier to shake this if Reed’s skin didn't look like afterglow incarnate. But it does and she’s just going to have to deal with that without making a fool of herself.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls,” Reed says jarring Stella from her thoughts with impressive speed. Reed leans forward, a bit too sincere and strikes a nerve - not a particularly upsetting one but a nerve nonetheless. Something bruised inside of her that she tries to ignore most days suddenly aches under the seriousness of her apology. The sting of emotion catches her off guard. Maybe this is why she doesn't have friends. She doesn't like it.

 

“You mentioned that.” It comes out like the metal of an expensive knife, flat and hard, and sharp where it needs to be. She doesn’t mean for it to. Just like she doesn’t mean to sit a little straighter or square her shoulders defensively.

 

Then she wishes she could take back the cold straight edge because suddenly Reed looks guilty, a terribly sad grimace breaking over her face and Stella doesn't like that either. She doesn't quite know what she wants hear or what she's hoping for out of any of this, but she sure as hell doesn't want Reed’s guilt. Especially not over her. She's fucking this whole thing up already…

 

“It’s just been, um, I got a bit caught up in leaving,” Reed responds elusively and Stella senses that there's a lot being left out of that explanation. Tense emotions pinch at Reed’s forehead as she fiddles distractedly with her dinner napkin, and Stella decides to momentarily relinquish whatever bitter feelings she has over Reed’s departure and save her from elaborating. If nothing else, she can certainly relate to the sentiment - she gets caught up in leaving all the time.

 

“You don’t need to justify anything to me.”

 

“But I want to. Really,” she says in quiet earnest, almost pleadingly even as she struggles to get the words out. Stella can see her pushing through the pain of her confession with righteous determination and she respects it so immeasurably that she’s struck silent. If Reed really needs to apologize to her so intensely, she’ll concede to hearing it even if she doesn’t love the gravity in her voice. “I know your last few weeks haven’t been easy and I should have been there. I'm sorry.”

 

Immediately the indirect mention of Spector burns through the salve of Reed’s nearness, rears up inside her and prods at her sore spots. He's taken so much from her and now that he's gone, his ghost is more relentless that ever, still creeping through the spaces between her thoughts, finding the littlest cracks. But giving him attention gives him power and she won't do that. She zeroes in on Reed who is good and worthy and far less like a viral infection plaguing her mind.

 

“Apparently yours haven't been either,” Stella points out, preferring to discuss whatever’s happened during the in-between that's so unexpectedly lead her back to London and left her grappling for an explanation. Reed acknowledges the truth of it with a slight nod of her head and another unfortunate frown.

 

“Do you ever wish you could just fast forward through parts of your life?” She asks with heartbreaking honesty and a few different shades of regret. “Skip ahead to when you know you’ll feel normal again…” The statement trails away and she seems far off, caught up in the illusion of impending normalcy that's surely ahead but evades her somehow. And Stella knows the desire to skip the bad stuff, the need heal without hurting and move on with life. Well practiced in forgetting without forgiving others or herself, she’d love to think that jumping ahead would make a difference.

 

But she knows it's a useless endeavor.

 

“More than once,” she admits.“Life's one of those unfortunate things that you’re forced to experience whether you want to or not. You can try to get out of it but based on my experience it never seems to work.”

 

“What a bitch,” Reed deadpans and Stella can't help but laugh.

 

“Well, we’re both here now and back in London of all places,” she concludes trying to steer the conversation away from the gloomy direction that this line of questioning has taken them. “What areas are you looking into for the move?”

 

Reed visibly breathes, letting whatever's bothering her slip away, even if it's just for a little while. “I’ve had a job offer at the University College of London so somewhere nearby. Maybe stay in Pembridge if we can make it work. My sister loves the girls and she's a rather convenient babysitter, I must admit.”

 

Listening to Reed talk about living in Pembridge, a new job at UCL, it feels like a dream. Stella had set herself on saying goodbye and now she really might not have to. It’s the strangest thing, letting something go only to have it return. So much in life never comes back once it's set free.

 

“Congratulations are in order then, it's an amazing university. Sounds like a great opportunity.”

 

“Oh, tremendous. I’m thrilled actually. It came at the perfect time, I think I needed it.”

 

“Are you ladies ready to order?”

 

The return of their waiter breaks the two from their catching up and Stella's fleetingly grateful for it. Seeing Reed wear the evidence of her troubles so openly is much more difficult than she expected it to be. To be fair, she hadn't known what to expect but it wasn't this.

 

Having barely looked at the menu, they focus their attentions and quickly settle on something, after which the waiter leaves them to it.

 

A heaviness sits between them thick with the vestiges of their discussion. Stella's not sure if they should pick up where they left off or leave things be. Even though she's not one to divulge so much in one sitting, Reed might need to.

 

“How’re you though?” Reed asks, making Stella's decision for her. “All we’ve talked about is me.”

 

Stella’s fine to keep the conversation on Reed. She’s not too keen to discuss herself, especially at the moment. “I’m fine. Just trying to figure out what I’ve missed over the last few weeks, I’ve got piles of paperwork to go over.”

 

“You’re back at work already?” The alarm in her question shouldn't be surprising but it is. Out of everyone, she thought Reed would understand her need to keep moving. She tells herself that this is what friends do, they care for one another and ask the tough questions but yet again, Stella’s not used to it.

 

“Just catching up on a few things,” she placates before adding a pointed, “Nothing terrifying.” It’s meant to assure Reed, set her worries at bay, but the haunting reality of their recent history rings all too true in the wake of her unfortunate teasing. Terrifying is - and has been - all too prevalent in their line of work, in their day to day lives and waking nightmares. When you know what others are capable of, how do you see them for anything else…

 

Luckily, Reed chooses to take her explanation in stride and smiles at her, rolling her eyes, knowing she’s been caught - over protective and all that. Briefly, Stella wonders if she will ever tire of seeing such an enchanting display of exasperation. And then their eyes meet and Stella can’t keep her lips from twisting and her eyes from twinkling and it’s so good to see her again.

 

“You look good,” Reeds says, her gaze sweeping over Stella, taking in the wave of her hair and the drape of her blouse. With Reed, she doesn’t mind the gesture but then Stella witnesses a look of realization wash over her as she catches herself, blushing furiously. “I mean, uh - it’s good to see you.” Stella has to keep herself from laughing while watching her fumble with the complement, and she thinks maybe she hasn’t read everything so wrong after all.

 

“Which is it?” She asks, letting her voice go low and dark.

 

“Both.”

 

* * *

 

Doing up the buttons on her coat before they brave the night air, Stella’s still not entirely sure what to make of the evening. Reed insisted on paying since she extended the invitation and Stella wasn’t going to argue over it. It wasn’t unusual, they often switched back and forth on the bill back in Belfast so there was nothing to make of it, nothing to tell Stella where this was going, completely normal. 

 

However there were other not so normal things that made Stella more confident in her initial assumptions. Little things about her posture, the way she leaned in without noticing, her coy barely-there smile that sparkled under the hazy lights. It made her feel like Reed was asking to try again, to move past whatever was holding her back in Belfast, but without a clear sign, Stella just couldn’t bring herself to cross the line. Afterall, Reed could be inadvertently flirtatious… Some people are.

 

Besides, it didn’t really matter either way. Reed’s company was absolutely enough, she didn't need anything beyond that. So what if she was attracted to her? Stella was attracted to a lot of people and it rarely ruled her in any way. Reed didn’t need to be an exception to that. Stepping out into the lamplit streets, she repeats this to herself even now, just as she did throughout dinner. Self-control. 

 

Everything about the evening feels transcendent, the sidewalks glimmering after hours of easy rain. Stella turns to Reed and there’s a sensation of uncertainty between them as they stand there facing each other, both a little expectantly. 

 

Then it’s abruptly clear to Stella that this might be where they part ways. Her chest constricts, a petulant ache surfacing at the thought of saying goodbye. But she’s trying not to be a complete ass so she quickly pushes it away. Lucky for her, she finds the idea of repeating past mistakes entirely unappealing so she should just leave it here. Tell Reed she had a lovely time, maybe schedule a time where they can grab coffee, and then go home alone. But Stella can't help herself, not when she thinks of walking into her empty flat surrounded by nothing but her own thoughts. That seems almost unbearable. So she goes for casual when she asks, “What’re you doing with the rest of your evening?” 

 

It's a bit of a risk but she reasons that going to a bar for a nightcap isn't too forward. They'd done it plenty of times before. Typical. Then again, the last time they'd done that Reed practically ended up in her lap at the table... That’s one mistake Stella has no qualms repeating, not in the slightest. But she shouldn't let her mind wander too far down that path if she's trying to behave and be patient, wait for Reed to make the first move. They'll sit at the bar, she assures herself. Easier to maintain space and whatnot. Keep herself from acting like an adolescent.

 

Wind plays with the dark strands of Reed’s hair, whipping them slowly over her midnight eyes. She tucks the errant strands behind her ear and shrugs, looking down the road past Stella. Puts her hands in the pockets of her coat and lifts her shoulders. “My sister’s home with the girls so I’ve got no obligations.”

 

Relief surges through her veins and apparently she'd been more worried about Reed’s reaction to her question than she'd anticipated. But this is good. Natural. It will give Stella more time to analyze whether or not she's manufacturing any of this unresolved tension drifting between them. “Care to grab a drink then?”

 

“Sure,” she replies without delay and Stella starts to run through her mental catalog of what might be nearby. There’s a few divey places round the corner but maybe something a little nicer would be good. Was nicer better or closer better? She didn't know. A few streets over - “How about at your place?”

 

Stella finds Reed’s hooded stare narrowed in on her and notes of an impish smile hiding behind the facade of her impromptu suggestion. It's as if she’s planned the whole thing, knows she’s caught Stella off guard is quite proud of herself. It's entirely adorable and a little sexy if she's being honest. 

 

Fine. It's entirely sexy as well but she couldn’t possibly be serious.

 

Stella feels a bit ridiculous and can't quite bring herself to believe that she's heard correctly. What was happening? She's either lost it or Reed has and she's not sure which one is more plausible at this point. She studies her for a moment and sees a defiance in Reed’s gaze, like she's daring Stella to challenge her - it tells her that she knows exactly what she’s doing, no doubt about it.

 

And then Reed takes a step closer, interrupting Stella’s internal back-and-forth, all dark lashes and dark outfit, eyeing her and it gets Stella’s blood moving. It makes her flush and makes her look at Reed’s pleased lips - makes her think about dragging her back inside and getting her behind a closed door before she can say another word. Just picturing it has Stella reeling, has her wondering what Reed would do if she returned audacity with audacity. If she would like it. If she would keep looking at her like this or if she would melt under the heat of Stella’s touch. She wonders how long it would take for her to wipe away the smugness and have her mumbling senselessly into her mouth, begging for her and making people wonder what the fuck was going on in there. 

 

But then she stops herself and christ, this is exactly the kind of thinking that gets her into trouble. And she doesn't much mind getting into trouble these days, when is she not in trouble? But she minds involving Reed in it, and really Reed deserves so much better than a stumbling encounter in a washroom stall for the sake of Stella’s sexual impulses. After all, Reed has obligations to herself and to others - she’s a mother and she's kind and she deserves better than that. Fleetingly, Stella thinks she should do them both a favor and be the one to end things this go ‘round. Let Reed forget about Stella, at least in that  _ way _ . Maybe she’ll meet someone at the university, someone capable of being around for more than a night or two. Someone decent. That's what a good friend would want for her. Stability, someone that her girls could respect. And Stella likes to think that she's not an entirely selfish person. Maybe she should just walk away, take Reed out for coffee like she told herself she would. Maybe.

 

Or maybe she's simply looking too hard for an excuse to continue punishing herself for crimes that aren't hers.

 

Stella realizes she still hasn’t said anything when doubt begins to creep into the corners of Reed’s eyes like she thinks she’s miscalculated, made a mistake, a really big mistake. The kind of mistake that can’t be undone and leaves you feeling pissed at yourself and rightfully embarrassed for all eternity. Screw that. There’s a lot of things that the woman standing in front of her deserves and that is not one of them.

 

Clearing her throat, she extricates herself from her worries, gives Reed a proper once-over just to make sure there's no confusion about how badly she wants her and suggests, “We should find a cab then...” 

 

The pain of rejection eases back and Reed responds a little too brightly with a strained, “Perfect.” She’s really trying very hard to be brave here, appear collected, and it has Stella trying to hide an amused smirk. As she moves down the sidewalk to flag down a car, she wonders if Reed’s ever propositioned someone. She wonders how long it’s been since she took someone home for a night without knowing where it would leave her the next day. Even though Stella's perfected the art, Reed’s boldness tonight is probably rather cavalier for her. She wonders what inspired such fearlessness when Croydon seemed such an easy excuse a few weeks ago. 

 

And then a passing cab swings to the curb in front of them and Stella approaches it before looking back to Reed, making sure she's still on board, sees her waiting patiently. Content, she opens the back door and climbs in, moving across the seat so that Reed can follow. She does so, adjusting her coat as Stella gives their driver her address and before she knows it, they're moving through the misty city streets, lights passing around them in long streaks and blurs.

 

Sealed in the small car, Stella watches the bustle of London glide by and tries to relax but it's slightly more difficult to ignore the shifting atmosphere around them now that they’re alone - well, almost alone and very much on their way to being entirely alone. She turns from the window to check in on Reed and even the small movement draws Reed’s attention in the confined space. And then Reed meets her inquiring eyes with an anxious, almost embarrassed smile. Beneath her guise, Stella can make out promises of her earlier vibrato, a stubbornness and the energy of a decision made, but nerves are practically puddling around her now that they're moving. 

 

It feels a bit like deja vu, waiting in a silence loud with anticipation, waiting for transit to take them from Point A to Point B, waiting for physical satisfaction to translate into peace of mind, just a few moments of relief. All this waiting... making room for thoughts instead of actions. In Stella's experience, too much time left alone with one’s thoughts never bodes well for evenings like this. 

 

Hoping to alleviate her anxiety, Stella does the only safe thing that comes to mind and brushes the back of Reed’s hand with her knuckles affectionately, just once or twice, trying to comfort. She's not sure she's very good at it but she tries her best. Reed hesitates a little, looking down at the contact and then links a few of their fingers together. A silent assurance that she hasn't gotten cold feet. She’s with her.

 

Butterflies race through Stella’s stomach and it feels strange as fuck.

 

Truly, she doesn’t want to scare Reed off but she knows she’s not very good at this next part either. Soft words and light gestures aren’t her forte. Preferring to get to the point rather than romance her way through foreplay, once they get back to her flat she’ll have to put in a real effort, be careful. At least she thinks so, she doesn't know. Going back to her apartment was Reed’s idea after all. Maybe she's putting too much thought into this, which isn’t like her in these situations but Reed’s practically holding her hand and suddenly she feels like the one who’s never done this before. God, it’s irritating. She needs to get out of the car, put her feet on solid ground. Get it together.

 

As they turn onto her street, Stella forces a deep steadying breath and then the car stops. They’ve arrived. Finally. Reed untangles her fingers while Stella pays the driver, and they step out towards her flat and it all feels surreal. Her street is quiet and she uses the stillness to collect herself, find her backbone. Crisp air fills her lungs and logically she knows she's better at compartmentalizing than this. This is her element, she’s got nothing to worry about. Reed’s made it through the drive and really, that's where it all went wrong last time. She'll just have to make sure they don't wait too long once they're inside, she thinks to herself cheekily before turning the key and stepping into her dark foyer. Over her shoulder, she sees Reed enter the dusky shadows of her flat and circles behind her to lock the door. 

 

“Can I take your coat?” It sounds casual, and good because that's what she's going for here. 

 

“Sure,” Reed responds, handing it off and taking a look around.

 

Even in the dark, Stella doesn't love having people in her home looking at her things. Very few personal touches grace her walls, no photographs or ornaments cluttering the shelves - easier to maintain, that's her defense. And really what’s the point, she's rarely here anyway. 

 

Still, the impulse to keep her things to herself momentarily rears its head and it's not as though she's worried about whatever Reed might deduce from her surroundings, it just makes her uncomfortable. There's a reason Stella prefers hotel rooms.

 

Another breath.

 

They've made it this far and she’s starting to feel some of her equilibrium return. She tells herself she can do this next part, she can be careful, she can let Reed set the pace. Being here with Reed in her space, thinking that this might actually happen, has her feeling more capable and even a little excited.

 

Then Reed’s wandering gaze settles back on her’s.

 

Another question. 

 

God, she hopes she doesn't look as feral as she feels. She tugs at the sleeve of her blouse.

 

“Kitchen’s just in here.”

 

Leading the way, Stella flicks on a small light once they enter and it's thankfully not too bright. Her heels click along the tile as she takes her open bottle from the night before and pours two glasses while Reed stands at the island, hands placed rather demurely on the granite countertops. It's an arresting image, the juxtaposition of her windswept hair against the jittery backdrop of her stature - it has Stella working not to spill anything while she notices.

 

Reed avoids her by looking around, distracting herself with the apparently fascinating decor of her flat. Hopefully another glass of wine will even her out. Hopefully it'll even them both out because she's all over the fucking place tonight... but she'll let that bother her later, she needs to stay present right now, focus. 

 

Pour the wine, stop ogling.

 

Task complete, Stella walks back to the island and stands next to her, extending a glass and Reed is finally forced to skitter her eyes over her as she accepts it. “Thank you.”

 

She hums her response and tilts her head forward catching Reed’s roving eye. Raising her glass, she gives a subtle smile and gently adds, “To your new chapter.” Reed flashes her a genuinely grateful smile that thaws Stella from the inside out. She might never know a more satisfying feeling than causing such a pure and lovely expression as Reed’s smile. And then their glasses clink, the sound resonating louder than it should in the stillness around them. Stella props herself against the counter and places her glass down after a sip, begins toying with the stem. 

 

“Mm, very nice,” Reed says and it's barely audible as if she's afraid of being heard.

 

“Glad you think so.”

 

Reed looks away from her again, down actually. Shit. They've been inside for all of three minutes and Reed can barely look at her. Whispers of “failure” echo between her ears because she's desperate to put Reed at ease but doesn't really know how - whatever she's doing clearly isn't working. Perhaps she should just get to it, forget the facade and the tip-toeing. Most people she spends her evenings with wouldn't care, she doesn't have to account for their feelings. But it seems decidedly wrong to do that with Reed, this is obviously different. In some ways it's thrilling and in others it’s left her somewhere between panicked and annoyed.

 

And then to the intense relief of her racing mind, Reed lifts her chin and she's sporting an attractive blush. Beneath her fan of thick lashes, Stella can see she's almost entirely terrified and tired of trying to hide it, practically begging Stella to put her out of her misery. Just call her on it.

 

Still twirling the stem of her glass, hopelessly trying to keep herself from touching her, she tries to soothe her, “No need to be so nervous.”

 

Easier said than done it seems because acknowledging it does little more than elicit a sarcastic roll of Reed’s eyes and a breathy scoff. So much for that. Then going for broke, she says the only thing that might truly settle her in this moment. The only thing that might save their friendship from the damage of another failed evening together. Maybe they're not meant for this. Maybe there's a reason why they find it so difficult.

 

“You know, nothing has to happen here if you don’t want it to.” 

 

And an appreciative smile flits across Reed’s face before her brow worries again. “It’s not that I don't want it to, I just-” she breaks off and Stella can hear her becoming flustered. She breathes a little too harshly trying push the words out. “It’s just that - I’ve never…” she trails off while her truth sits caught in her throat.

 

“I know.”

 

At that, Reed’s eyes find her’s through the fog of her frustration and she doesn't seem all that surprised that Stella hears what she's not saying. And thank God she's not offended because really she has no way of knowing, it's just an assumption she's made - solidified over the last few minutes. Hopefully this is the source of her worries, Stella thinks shamefully, because at least it's something easily fixed. “First time for everything.” 

 

“I'm afraid I’ll disappoint,” she finally says and there are notes of guilt in her admission, as if her fear has manifested into something unbearable that’s already happened.

 

And at that, Stella decides she can't keep her hands to herself any longer. She leans forward, carefully sweeping Reed’s hair from her shoulder and entering her personal space. Her hips brush up against the fabric of Reed’s trousers and she can feel her breath hitch. It's more direct than she'd wanted to be but she can't have Reed’s insecurities driving her thoughts. Words like disappointment have no place between them. So her fingertips float through the smooth ends of her tresses and pass over the curve of her shoulder, eliciting a small shiver. But Stella continues trailing down the length of her arm, feeling the gooseflesh rise beneath her touch, until she reaches her hand. And just as Reed had done in the car earlier, she links a few of their fingers and watches the beautiful contrast of their skin tangle while Reed takes a deep even breath. Tearing her eyes from the sight, she redirects her attention to Reed’s features, letting her gaze land purposefully on her mouth and rake up to her eyes. What she sees there is reassuring and Stella thinks that Reed might look impossibly more beautiful when she's aroused. Squeezing her hand, she tells her honestly, “Man or woman, the semantics of it are mostly the same when you get down to it. Trust me.” 

 

Clearly affected by Stella's proximity, she can practically see her doubt lose its footing. Normally Stella might take over at this point, close the distance and leave the rest to history. But Reed’s still searching for something in the icy blue of her eyes and Stella wants to make sure she finds it. And she must find something because it's then that she feels Reed’s hand float to her waist. It slips over Stella’s hip and snakes around until her fingertips skim the dip of her lower back. The motion feels like honey and it gives Reed the opportunity to pull Stella closer, which she takes full advantage of, much to her delight. Reed’s eyes drop down to their shared space where the paleness of Stella’s blouse mingles and moves with the flowing black fabric of her own as they breathe, and evaluates the nearness. She must be okay with it because now she's looking at Stella’s mouth, her gaze jumping back to her eyes for approval and the gesture is so sincere that Stella can scarcely understand it. But she nods easily enough, smiles with her eyes and then Reed’s leaning in. Eyelids fluttering shut, they meet in a hesitant kiss very unlike the ones they’ve shared before. Stella lets the contact linger and lightly brushes her lips against Reed’s, testing the water. She reminds herself not to push, to take cues from her partner, let Reed take the lead. Truth be told, it's actually not that difficult now that they're here. On the whole, Stella forgets that sex with women tends to be a different sort of experience for her, allowing for a greater give and take. Women are less-threatening sexual beings; the need for control doesn't instinctively overpower her with women the way it does with men. 

 

And this is Reed. She's seems to be different for Stella in more ways than one.

 

Then Reed’s lips are moving against hers with conviction and Stella can't help it when she takes Reed’s upper lip between hers and slides her tongue briefly against the skin there. Welcoming the progression, Reed opens to her and before she can think to stop herself, Stella's pushing a hand through her hair and stroking her tongue softly against her own. She sighs into their kiss returning it in equal measure and with each passing moment, Reed becomes more responsive, more insistent, keeps Stella pressed to her. And it's quickly becoming a heated mass of heavy breathing and lips and hands.

 

Jesus, this was everything she’d imagined this woman to be. Strong and soft, passionate and selfless. 

 

Exploring her mouth with care, Stella decides she can exert a bit of force when she feels Reed pulling her hips tightly against her own. So she turns them, pushing Reed back against the island and Reed doesn't really seem to notice beyond a small moan in the back of her throat. And then she feels Reed’s hand on her ass and it's a little surprising but all the encouragement she needs. She inserts one of her thighs between Reed’s and immediately feels her hips rolling against it seeking as much contact as possible. Fuck, she needs to slow down before she does something stupid. Breaking their kiss, Stella lets out a heady breath and can't help but feel lost in the sight of her.

 

Their noses bumping, Reed’s hands roam over Stella’s back and waist before tugging the ends of the blouse out of her skirt. Stella tries to calm her breathing and kisses the pulse point at Reed’s neck letting her teeth graze the skin there. It elicits some interesting sounds from Reed and Stella smiles into Reed’s skin, whispers, “You’re sure you’ve never done this before?” Pulling back, Stella looks at Reed who’s still running her hands along her hips and toying with the buttons on her blouse. Reed bites her lip to keep from smiling too broadly and Stella continues, “You’re awfully good at it.”

 

“Flatterer,” she dismisses, returning her lips to Stella’s. Nipping at the bottom lip and letting a few buttons loose, Reed continues moving against her and Stella hums appreciatively. But then Stella feels cool air hitting her torso and realizes that they’re still in the kitchen. With the lights on. She hates the idea of stalling but she’s still visibly bruised around the ribs. Being in the kitchen half naked with these lights on just won't do and turning them off might make Reed suspicious. But she would really rather be in the dark where the ugly purple might be overlooked so that they don't have to talk about it. Especially right now. 

 

Fuck him.

 

“Why don’t we head upstairs?”

 

“Okay.”

 

And it's that easy.

 

Stella pulls her shirt together in the middle and takes one of Reed’s hands, leads her from the kitchen, wine all but forgotten. Reed seems to have gained a bit of confidence over the last few minutes and unquestioningly follows through the darkened hallways until they're upstairs and entering Stella’s room. 

 

Once over the threshold, Stella wastes little time and her mouth returns to Reed’s in seconds with nimble fingers lifting the black fabric away from her body. She doesn't trust the moonlight filtering in through the curtains and beyond the obvious reasons, she would rather distract Reed before removing anything of her own. Even though she doesn't always undress for sex, she knows she will tonight and because Reed cares about her, she’ll be concerned by what she sees. Stella’s weighed her options and she can accept Reed’s concern, that's not really the problem. She just wants to make this a good experience for Reed, doesn't want her bullshit coming into the picture because Reed worries enough about her as it is, she can tell. And above all, she'd like to postpone seeing that look in her eyes, the one that hurts on her behalf and imagines what the fuck must be going on inside of her head. So she kisses her and touches her and hopes that distracting her physically will keep the darker parts of this at bay.

 

And it works because once Reed’s shirt floats to the floor she's already working on the button of her trousers and backing towards the bed, all without breaking away from Stella who's a little taken aback by the display of eagerness but not one to complain. 

 

By the time Reed’s legs hit the bed, she's managed to remove all but her bra and underwear while Stella stands there, blouse fluttering open. Reed must notice because her hands slip under it and move it easily off her shoulders. The cool air pricks at Stella’s skin as the silk slips away and Reed’s warm hands caress the toned muscles of her back, pulling her down into another heated kiss as she moves to sit back on the bed. Stella steps out of her heels and bends forward to keep it going and ends up with a knee on the mattress between Reed’s thighs to steady herself. Fully intending to follow through, she goes to move forward but then Reed’s fumbling with the zipper of her skirt. And Stella’s okay with leveling the playing field, she can be in her underwear, the lights are off and the evening is dark but Reed’s skin is darker than hers and she can't tell what she’ll look like. But she’ll get over it because she can take her clothes off without it being a problem and Reed won't think she's weak. Stella knows she won't. So she makes quick work of the zipper and let's the skirt fall and brings her lips back to Reed’s faster than she probably should, unable to control the desire to keep her focus elsewhere. It's not a total copout but it feels like one. Thankfully Reed’s pliant and willing beneath her and it's fine, everything's fine. 

 

Moving her mouth to Reed’s ear, she tastes it and runs her teeth along the earlobe before she quietly says, “move back.” And so Reed drops down on her elbows and lifts herself backwards as Stella follows. She adjusts her other knee to nudge Reed’s legs open and crawls forward until she’s between them. Seeing Reed like this, practically splayed before her is better than she could have anticipated. So much so that she barely notices the few wispy strands of blonde interrupting the view until Reed’s tucking them into place and taking a moment to really look at her. It's gentle and inquisitive and so full of awe - there’s barely any trace of her earlier fears. The sight of it has Stella kissing her once again, moving her mouth along her jaw until she finds the perfect spot and lets her tongue lap at the pulse she finds there. 

 

Reed lets out a shaky breath and her hips rise to meet Stella’s involuntarily. Taking the cue, Stella settles herself more firmly against her center. “This okay?” She assumes starting out like this might be more comfortable for her, more familiar. And Reed nods her head and moves against her, a small roll of the hips that has her breath catching. Then she presses her hand against Stella's lower back to keep her there and rolls again. Meanwhile Stella kisses her deeply, caresses the skin stretched out over Reed’s ribs until she feels Reed arching up into her touch. At the rate they're going, she decides it's safe to run her hands over the lacey fabric of her bra and cups her through the thin material. Almost immediately she can feel her nipple stiffen and Reed breaks their kiss for some much needed air. Her hips continue their rhythm under Stella’s, eyes pressed shut and biting down to keep from being too vocal. And it's only been a few quick touches but Reed is already so worked up that Stella wonders how proud she’ll be of herself if she can make her come from this alone. Even though this position isn't doing that much for her, watching Reed does wonders and she can feel the tension in her core intensify as she meets Reed’s movements, focused on applying as much pressure there as possible. Truthfully, Stella’s own arousal really shouldn't surprise her - it's not as if she hasn't thought of this moment for weeks. 

 

In the haze of her thoughts and Reed moving beneath her, Stella barely notices Reed’s fingers seeking her bra clasp, twisting the fabric there with little success. Deciding to help her out, she backs onto her knees and undoes it herself. When she's done, Stella looks down and Reed’s removing hers as well. Then her smooth body is before her and her hair is mussed and she looks so damn perfect that Stella doesn't realize she's still propped up on her knees until there's a noticeable shift in the way Reed’s looking at her. Fuck. She sees it. Stella knows it still looks awful. 

 

For a moment she feels incredibly insecure.

 

“Stella...” Reed’s voice is quiet and full of questions that she's not interested in answering. At least not right now.

 

“It’s nothing,” she says, returning to her previous position and climbing over Reed.

 

But Reed’s eyes don't leave her’s and she insists worriedly, “Stella-”

 

“I promise,” she interrupts capturing Reed’s lips before moving to her neck, thrusting her hips against Reed’s center and making it her mission to distract her from further interrogation. She wouldn't let Spector into this moment. She wouldn't.

 

And it half works because Reed’s body immediately cooperates with a moan but then it turns into a whine of frustration as she continues, “Doesn't it hurt? I don't want to hurt you.”

 

Stella looks at her then, smiles and assures her, “You won't hurt me.”

 

“You're sure?”

 

Stella rolls her hips again and Reed’s breathing almost immediately hitches. “I'm very sure.” 

 

And then Stella feels Reed’s chest heaving against hers and can't resist paying it more attention. She lifts herself up a little and palms one of her breasts, feeling its weight and running her fingers over the sensitive peak. In between trailing kisses and taking moments to taste her skin, she slowly makes her way down Reed’s torso. She smells like jasmine and has her nails sliding into the hair at Stella’s neck sending goosebumps along her back. Then Stella’s mouth reaches the swell of her breast and as she traverses her tongue along this unchartered terrain, she dips her head and let's her teeth scrape gently along the underside, which has Reed making little noises and pressing her fingers into Stella’s scalp. She smiles against the curve of her skin, enjoying teasing her, and pinches her in apology. And without further warning, her mouth swiftly descends to her nipple feeling the soft skin there pebble beneath her tongue and it makes Reed exhale sharply at the contact. In the process of exploring her body though, Stella's hips are no longer pressed into Reeds and her body tenses seeking relief under Stella’s ministrations.

 

Keeping her mouth at work, she moves a hand south and takes an experimental swipe over Reed’s underwear, running the pads of her fingers over the decorative hem before shifting to cup her intimately. Much to her delight, she can feel Reed’s dampness through the small scrap of lace there as she moves her hand gently over her. Caught up in the sensation of finally be touched, Reed swears under her breath and the sound of it goes straight to Stella’s core. Determined to make her do it again, Stella moves her mouth to Reed’s other breast and repeats the motion until she’s steadily grinding into her palm and clenching her thighs around her wrist. But then she feels Reed pulling her up for a messy kiss and she complies eagerly, grateful to have Reed’s insecurities unravel beneath her. And Reed’s mouth moves roughly over Stella’s, using her teeth and keeping her in place with her hands while she gives into the impulses of her body below. After a few moments they break for air and Stella tugs at the waistband, asks, “Can I take these off?” 

 

“God, yes.”

 

Reed lifts herself so she can remove them and it's a little clumsy but does the job and they're gone in seconds. Placing an achingly gentle kiss to her lips, Stella settles over Reed once more, opening her mouth slowly and running a warm hand over Reed’s bare hip. She kisses her thoroughly and methodically, relaxing Reed with the touch of her lips and the graze of her teeth. Then as her hand caresses her thigh moving intently closer, she pulls away from Reed’s mouth just enough to look at her. Her eyes are lidded as she watches Stella watch her, lips bright from their kisses, and she floats her fingers across Stella’s cheek, moving a dangling blonde curl behind her ear once more. Some of the arousal evaporates from her stare as she takes her in, the magnetic beacon of her eyes going all sentimental. 

 

“You're so beautiful.”

 

Her voice is full of wonder and emotion as she says it, and Stella can't be sure what expression flies across her features as she hears it. It's an incredibly lovely thing to say, surely it is, but it’s got Stella’s stomach turning immediately upside down. Like going for that extra stair in the night and being met with nothing but solid ground. And she tries very hard to smile and accept the compliment with the grace it deserves but she doubts she pulls it off.

 

Deflecting, she returns her mouth to Reed’s neck and bites her, perhaps a bit aggressively. It does the trick and Stella feels her buck up towards the hand resting on her pubic bone. Dipping her fingers lower, she's met with the silky skin of her sex and that familiar slickness that sends her blood racing. She strokes her there and Reed’s practically panting in her ear. She runs her teeth along the spot she's making on her neck, soothes it with her tongue and then trails her finger up her warm center, gathering her arousal and swirling it over her clit. A string of incoherent curses fumble from Reed’s mouth as she moves into Stella’s touch. And once again, Stella takes her cue. She slips a single finger rather easily inside her, feeling Reed’s walls tighten immediately around her, and fuck - she's so wet and keening that Stella can't remember the last time she was this turned on from getting someone off. Then she's drawing herself out slowing and pushing back in, knuckles brushing against her entrance. Every few strokes, she withdrawals completely and brings Reed’s wetness back to her clit, circling there a few times before returning to the warmth inside her body. And she builds a rhythm, presses her hand tightly against her as so does so and Reed grips her shoulders, letting herself climb in Stella’s embrace. Tearing her mouth from Reed’s neck, not wanting to bruise her too badly, Stella peppers much lighter kisses along her jaw until Reed grabs the back of her neck and pulls them together. And if Stella thought she'd been forceful earlier, this was a new level because Reed’s riding her hand and assaulting her mouth and Stella thinks she must be getting close. 

 

So Stella adds a second finger and it has Reed practically crying into her mouth, muffled profanities and all. So she pumps her hand faster and breaks their kiss so she can adjust her hand, get a better angle, concentrate. With their foreheads pressed together Stella curls her fingers inside of her and within seconds she feels Reed tense. Stella watches as her eyes clamp shut and breathing stalls, the climax breaking over her, her inner walls contracting intensely around Stella’s fingers. And she keeps her hand pressed firmly against her clit, allowing her to ride out the peaks and valleys, enjoying the sight of her lost in the moment, free. 

 

And when her hips come to an exhausted halt, Stella carefully extracts herself as not to provoke her sensitive flesh. Reed’s eyes eventually flutter open after she's calmed down and Stella's looking at her, smiling. “See,” she says, “Not so different.”

 

“Better,” she responds pulling her down to meet her lips. “Much better.” She delves her tongue deep into Stella’s mouth with impressive verve for someone who seemed entirely spent just a few moments ago. Stella makes a mental note not to underestimate her stamina as she meets her kiss with equal enthusiasm. Reed props herself up and manages to slip out from underneath her, gaining enough leverage to force Stella down onto her own pillows. And her hands are as eager as her mouth, exploring Stella’s breasts and her stomach all while kissing her completely breathless - it's a remarkable change from the earlier tentativeness. But Stella won't fool herself, even now under the mercy of her heated hands, she knows insecurities don't vanish that easily. It's just a bit difficult to remember while Reed’s mouth is moving south along her neck and down the plane of her chest. Stella looks down at her, appreciates the site of her lips traveling across the expanse of lightly freckled skin. Reed notices and catches her eye, smiling wickedly as she reaches her nipple and descends her mouth on it. It has Stella biting her lip and trying not to moan obnoxiously at the feeling. But it's sending pulses down her body straight to her clit and she’s squirming a little, trying to restrain from the idea of touching herself to relieve the tension there. She's not exactly modest with her desires in bed, would normally have no qualms about doing so. But she wouldn't want Reed to take it the wrong way and dammit, she's wound so much tighter than she expected to be. She can tell she's already soaked through her underwear.

 

And Reed must sense her desperation because she feels her fingertips sneaking carefully under the the band of her underwear brushing playfully against the skin there. Nipping gently at her nipple before she releases it, her face lifts to Stella’s still wearing a hint of her teasing grin. But then Stella sees evidence of her earlier fears lurking in the shadows of her eyes. She's trying to mask them by averting her gaze, dipping her head to taste the skin along her neck, taking her earlobe between her teeth. And Stella can't help the curse that escapes her lips as her hips involuntarily jerk up seeking Reed’s hand. It's fucking agony.

 

“Show me how you like to be touched,” Reed whispers, ghosting her lips against Stella's as their noses bump. And Stella freezes. She can hear her heart pounding in her ears as she tries to regulate her breathing. It's not an outlandish request, she probably should have expected it, but nobody's ever asked her that before so she finds herself not knowing the proper response. But then one of Reed’s fingers brushes experimentally over her center feeling the wetness there and Stella releases a relieved breath, her body spinning once more and she can't think straight. Maybe she’ll just keep going. But then Reed utters a soft, “please.”

 

So Stella forces a hand down her own body, slips it under the front of her underwear and settles it over Reed’s. She can feel Reed smile against her as she kisses her appreciatively. And she takes her middle finger and presses it down over Reed’s and into the liquid heat of her middle, guiding it up towards her clit. She repeats the motion a few times while Reed gains her bearings and before long she’s applying an increasing amount of pressure with each stroke on her own. And it has Stella breathing hard. Thank god, thank god, she needed this. She needed to be touched and she needed to be with Reed and fuck, it feels so good that she has both. And she can feel her insides winding and her muscles tensing but she knows it won't be enough, she won't finish from this.

 

“Show me what you want,” comes Reed’s voice again, smooth as velvet in her ear. 

 

And Stella doesn't have the patience to hesitate when she takes Reed’s middle finger and positions it at her entrance and pushes it in making herself gasp at the welcome pressure. Reed hums into her neck and moves it gently inside her. “You're so soft.” And Stella can't really formulate a response because she's already flattening the palm of Reed’s hand against her clit and moving against her there. Fuck, it feels so good to be with her like this. 

 

Then Reed’s biting at her neck and she hisses a barely audible “yes,” pressing Reed’s hand a little harder into her. She's stroking her upper wall along the spot she likes and suddenly she’s so close, so close she can almost feel it right there, she just needs a little more.

 

“Add another.”

 

Reed doesn't need to be told twice as she adds a second finger. And Stella pumps herself a few times against her hand, grinding her clit hard against her palm and Reed’s pressing her fingers up into her and fuck, she's coming, her whole body ignites with it, and she's riding Reed’s hand with abandon and fuck, thank god. Her body convulses a few times before the aftershocks rippling through her subside and she loosens her grip on Reed’s hand. Jesus, she hadn't realized how tightly she'd had hold of it. Her own hand is sore from the effort and she hopes she didn't hurt her. 

 

“Are you alright?” She asks after Reed’s fingers slide out of her body’s vice-like grip on them. 

 

Reed nods, smiling and rolling her wrist. “Very. That may have been the sexiest thing I've seen in my entire life,” she says resting on her elbow and looking down at her. 

 

“I doubt it.”

 

“I wouldn't say it if it weren't true.”

 

“I appreciate that,” she says trying to keep the skepticism from her voice. “Truly.” 

 

Then there's silence between them and the dampness of her underwear is suddenly cold against her skin and feels terribly awkward. “I think I need to get these off,” she says looking down at herself. Reed chuckles softly but doesn't say anything. Stella moves up on her elbows to tell her she’ll be right back but catches the shift in Reed’s gaze before she can do so and stops cold.

 

Well, shit. 

 

Before she can think of what to say, Reed’s eyes drag back up her body and land on her face with that sad sort of expression that Stella frankly can't stand. She knows she’s supposed to expect it but every time she sees it she’s reminded of why she fucks with her clothes on.

 

Oh well.

 

“I'll be right back,” she says forcing a tight smile and moving away from the bed and into her bathroom, shutting the door behind her. First things first, she tears the soaking scrap of lace from her body and tosses it carelessly into the laundry bin. Then she grabs her robe from its hook, wraps it protectively around herself and moves to the toilet. After relieving herself, she washes her hands, splashes a bit of water over her neck and takes a long look in the mirror.

 

She looks properly fucked. Her hair is a mess and she tries to smooth it over, putting a few stray pieces in place but it's a useless effort. Her lips are still swollen and there's a splash of purple splayed over her neck from Reed’s love bite. She normally wouldn't let that happen but she realizes she doesn't mind so much now that she's studying it under the light of her mirror. 

 

Then it occurs to her that she was probably an asshole just now.

 

She wonders if Reed’s sitting in her bedroom upset and trying to figure out what she's done wrong. She should apologize. She hadn't meant to leave so quickly, hadn't meant to be rude about it, had told herself not to be when she knew Reed was bound to see her and it was bound to happen. But in the moment, all of her good work doesn't matter. She just reacts. And that's not Reed’s fault.

 

Giving herself a last once-over, she makes up her mind to be nicer and leaves, flicking off the light behind her. Finding Reed in her bra and underwear once more and collecting her clothes, she approaches feeling bad for abandoning her, even just briefly. Reed stops sorting her things when she notices and her eyes look confused and a bit worried, or maybe it's scared.

 

“What was all that about?” 

 

It's more than one question really, it's a load of questions disguised as one. And where to begin... Stella has no clue. She could tell her what she already knows - that she's hurt herself. More than once. At least that much is obvious. Or she could address the deeper part of her question and give her some context, when it happened, why it happened. Why it keeps happening. But that's not something she's prepared to talk about. And then there's the aftermath, her reluctance to move forward, stuck in this endless battle with her own mind. All very appropriate for the mood of the evening. Exactly how she wanted this to go.

 

She's really knocking it out of the park tonight.

 

Instead of all of those things, she opts for the simplest answer she can construct. “Nothing more than old wounds.” 

 

Inside and out. One in the same.

 

“Some not so old.” 

 

Stella's arms cross protectively over her chest and she shifts her weight uneasily, not sure what to say to that. She thought she was ready for this but it's striking a chord in her that's more taut and more painful than anticipated. Nothing comes to her so Reed draws nearer.

 

“I didn't mean to upset you,” she apologizes, running a hand up her arm and Stella finds herself warming under her touch in spite of her need for self-preservation. It feels nice and she's tired of beating herself up. She'd rather let Reed comfort her than maintain her pride right now. “That's the last thing I wanted to do.”

 

“You didn't,” she assures with a small shake of her head, trying very hard to make it true. “It's just not something I tend to share with people. I'm not used to it.”

 

“Thank you for sharing it with me…”

 

There's a moment following Reed’s statement where Stella wonders if she's expecting her to continue. To open up and give her all the gruesome details. As much as she wishes certain things were different, that's just not going to happen. Not tonight anyway.

 

“I don't like to talk about it,” she says flatly, like she's expecting an argument that she has no intention of entertaining.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“Yes.”

  
Stella is so grateful in that moment that she kisses Reed fully and sweetly, completely intent on leaving the conversation behind them for the rest of the evening.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continual thanks to Katlyn, @TheRobbinsGang, @JenSchwartz21, and @SpookyHadley for all of your help. This chapter is a bit more lighthearted but see Chapter 1 for warnings. Enjoy!

Dawn breaks and Reed turns over on the rumpled sheets cushioned around her, arches her back, stretching and nuzzling her face into the softness of her pillow. Too early.

 

She feels a definite warmth beside her. It must be one of the girls, they crawl into her bed at night when they've had a bad dream and it's escalated since the move. She tries to will herself to move, check which one of them it is this time so she can pull them closer. But when she finally cracks her eyes, the previous night comes slamming into her psyche at the glint of blonde she sees illuminated by daybreak. 

 

Stella.

 

Ever since that night in Belfast, she told herself that should would find a way to make this right. Everything that happened between them and everything that didn't happen between them. She would find a way to get her life in order and settle things at home. Sort out her feelings. Because as strange and confusing as it might be, Reed had feelings, intense feelings for Stella, feelings that apparently had no intention of leaving anytime soon. She was stuck with them. 

 

Back in Ireland, it had managed to sneak up on her, this unusual attraction she’d felt toward Stella. Odd moments spent thinking of her, contemplating the multifaceted aspects of her being. Reed found her focus obscured by these thoughts of Stella on more than one occasion. Although she could reason it away at the time, Stella, it would seem, was far more direct than that. She wasn't afraid of what she wanted and she wasn't afraid to act. It was impressive, Reed remembers feeling flattered that night and more excited than she'd been in years. 

 

Afterall, Reed had begun to think that she'd arrived at a stage in her life where she was incapable of feeling new things. Everyday the same thing at work, the same thing at home, deep in her soul she could feel parts of herself fading. And then Stella kissed her. It was a shock to her senses - she'd never felt such a strong attraction to a woman before. That confused her, but not enough to stop it from happening a second time. Because as Stella pulled away to gauge her reaction before capturing her lips once more, Reed finally remembered what it felt like to be entirely herself again.

 

So when Stella got up to leave and asked if she'd like to accompany her back to her hotel room, she'd said yes. It didn't feel like her life - the life she’d been living day to day, doing what she was supposed to for everyone around her while driving a little too fast every time she got on her bike, simply for herself. Either way, she wasn't accustomed to this sort of invitation, not by colleagues and not by women, and definitely not by women who were colleagues. She should say no. But she found that she didn’t want to, she wanted to hold on to this part of herself, the person that Stella saw when she looked at her just now. Afterall, if she wasn’t dead, why was she living like she was? And then they were standing there in that hallway and suddenly she couldn't ignore the single word banging around in her brain. 

 

Married. She was married. 

 

It wasn't a perfect marriage or even a good one. She wasn't particularly happy, hadn't been for some time, and she felt desperate for someone to lean on, someone who understood. And into her life came Stella, so beautiful and full of her own power. It was fascinating, overwhelming to witness, and she’d forgotten that people could be like that. But then Reed found herself following Stella back to a hotel room when she didn't really have the right. Sure, her relationship was shit and she was vulnerable, but that wasn't an excuse to go around sleeping with attractive women.

 

And then it hit her somewhere deeper. She'd never even been with a woman, she had no experience with anything that was about to happen, and the realization broke over like a crashing wave to shore. Stella was enigmatic and cultured and had no hesitation in any of this. She would know what to do and as the numbers ticked down, Reed knew that it was about to become painfully obvious that she grew up in a sheltered home, in a conservative town and got married before she was ready, but most of all, that she didn't have enough experience to back this up. 

 

So she'd left. She left to figure herself out, assess her feelings and her marriage. Because if she was finding herself in front of elevators entertaining these thoughts, something was very wrong. And it wasn't fair. And she didn't want to hurt her husband. 

 

But it seems she's hurt him anyway because she's left him and moved and that's pretty shitty of her regardless of whether or not she wanted to fuck Stella back then. So she didn't cave to her selfishness in the moment but did it really matter if only a few weeks later she managed to do it the ‘right’ way? End result is the same. She's split up her family and that's her doing, no one else's.

 

Then she stops herself and tries to correct her spiraling train of thought. Her feelings are valid and her desire to leave was valid, and she needs to stop shouldering the brunt of the blame for something that hadn't been working for a long time. Something that wasn't right for her daughters. Almost every day she reminds herself that they deserve two loving homes instead of one pissy, tumultuous one. And some days she almost believes she’s done the right thing.

 

Then some days she thinks that maybe Stella came along at the right time, forcing her to realize a lot of things about herself. And some days she thinks that maybe she's just very drawn to her.

 

She doesn't really know why. 

 

Having thought on it to an annoying degree, she can't pinpoint exactly what it is about Stella that's captured her. All she knows is that once she was settled in London and feeling more like herself, there was only one person she wanted to see. And even though it might seem conspicuous, it's not why she moved here. Truly, Reed loves London, always has. Belfast had been Daniel’s doing, his job, his dream. And she'd been okay with it at the time, she'd been prepared to leave behind what she loved in sacrifice for something she loved more. But no one ever tells you that sometimes even the greatest things, like love, don't last forever. Even when you want it to, even when it's no one’s fault. 

 

She’d needed to come to terms with that. 

 

And now that she has, she's in Stella’s bed. How timely. She has no idea what she'd been thinking other than how badly she’d wanted to find out what would have happened if she hadn't walked away all those weeks ago... At least that part worked out. 

 

She looks around for a clock, needs to know the time so she can calculate how much longer she can lay here. As she moves to glance over Stella's shoulder, the curl of blonde hair below shifts she and catches her peaking.

 

“Good morning,” she says groggily, sleep coloring her voice. 

 

“Good morning,” Reed responds sheepishly. “Sorry to wake you, I was just looking for the time.”

 

“No need to apologize,” she says stretching and turning into Reed. “Do you have somewhere to be this morning?”

 

“I usually drop the girls at school around eight.”

 

“Mm,” Stella responds looking around for her phone but apparently she's left it downstairs and her alarm clock isn't plugged in. She must not have gotten around to putting everything right since returning home. But then she gets up, swinging on her robe and pads over to a dresser where she retrieves a watch. She squints at it a little and then-

 

“Shit, it's 7:35.”

 

“Fuck.

 

And then Reed’s throwing off the covers and bending down for her underwear and her clothes. They're a crumpled mess but they'll have to do. How the hell was it already so late? She's not one to oversleep or ignore her internal clock. Guess that's just what happens when you spend half the night fucking instead of sleeping. While she's buttoning her pants, Stella's handing her her shirt and asking if she should call her a cab. Having no real alternative plan, Reed takes her up on the offer and Stella goes downstairs to find her phone.

 

Reed uses the washroom connected to Stella's bedroom in the meantime and scrubs her face of the smudged mascara left over from the night before. She looks an absolute wreck. Her hair is everywhere and her lack of sleep is visibly evident. And even though she could technically get her sister to drop off the girls, she wouldn't feel right about asking her to do that. She already relies on her too much and more importantly, her children need some level of consistency right now. Not to mention the questions that would ensue. So she finds some mouthwash, gargles it and heads down to collect the rest of her belongings. 

 

Stella's in the kitchen putting on coffee and cleaning up their forgotten glasses from the night before. “Your car should be here in a few minutes,” she says over her shoulder as Reed comes in. “Need anything else before you go?”

 

“No, that's perfect, thank you,” she says running a hand through her hair. “Sorry to rush off like this.”

 

“Don't worry about it,” Stella says stopping the faucet and turning to her, done with tidying. “I just wish I'd thought to set an alarm. I wasn't thinking.”

 

“I don't think either of us were,” she replies and it comes out sounding far more suggestive than she’d wanted it to.

 

“Well, thank god for that, then.” 

 

Something in the way Stella says it blazes up Reed’s neck and she feels terribly self-conscious. She looks away uncomfortably but then scolds herself, tells herself not to act so childish. So she forces her gaze back to Stella only to find laughter in her eyes and god, she feels bad at this. It's been forever since she's dated and she's forgotten everything. She has no idea what's appropriate.

 

“Let's go get your things,” Stella says looking towards the foyer and saving her. 

 

Always saving her.

 

They walk in together and she collects her purse and coat, pulling it on and finding her phone. Christ, there's a string of missed calls and texts from Lydia that she'll have to respond to in the car. Looking up from her cluttered screen she sees that the cab’s thankfully pulling up in front of Stella’s flat now. That was quick.

 

“Car’s here,” she says turning away from the window and walking back to Reed. She's quite the picture in her silk robe and morning hair, which doesn't look nearly as awful as it should. In fact, it looks pretty good, she doesn't look like she just woke up at all and that's not really fair. It's even less fair when Reed’s the one with places to be looking like the embodiment of ‘a walk of shame.’ Then Stella folds her arms over herself in a shielding sort of way and perhaps it's just a reflex, she reasons. After all, she can't be entirely upset because her eyes are still mocking her when she reminds her, “Best get going, can't have the girls running late.”

 

“Course not,” she agrees, making to move and then stopping because this suddenly feels too fast, it’s not what a proper goodbye looks like. And even though she's not sure how this works anymore or even more delicately, how this works with Stella, she knows that it feels wrong. So she plants her feet and takes time to really look at her, make sure she's listening, before she lets her know, “I had a very lovely time.”

 

“So did I.”

 

Good. That’s good. Now what? 

 

She wants to see her again. Even with her nerves and the little bumps of awkwardness between them, everything went well. At least she thinks it did, she's pleased. And Stella isn't completely shut off from her as if it's all just been “one night” that “didn't mean anything.” This definitely doesn't feel like that so maybe she should just ask because she's still standing there in her foyer and Stella isn't saying anything. Fuck, why isn't she saying anything? She's just standing there looking perfect and silent with twinkling eyes like she knows exactly what's going on in Reed’s mind and finds some sort of humor in watching it unfold. Or maybe her silence is merely the code for ‘one night stand’ and Reed’s screwing it up because it's been so long since she’s had one. 

 

No. 

 

She decides no, that’s not what this is and that’s not what she wants because she hasn't stopped thinking about her for weeks, and she doesn't imagine that waking up tomorrow will be any different. Perhaps she’s in way over her head but isn't that the whole point of getting back to herself with this move and the separation? Living a more honest life? Honest with herself, honest with others - she can do that, she has to do that.

 

“Can I call you, see if you're free later this week?”

 

“I'd like that.”

 

“You would?”

 

“Yes,” she says smiling a little, looking suddenly younger than her years and that’s when Reed realizes that Stella doesn't smile, she smirks and even that's a stretch. There's something she does, something very subtle with the muscles of her face, and it projects the illusion of smiling on occasion, when necessary. A lift of her brows, a ghosting curve of her lip, but it's never really a smile in the traditional sense. But as Reed witnesses this variation now, she realizes that she’s seeing one. Small but still a sight to behold and she feels very lucky. Then Stella continues because she's still standing there gaping, “You're going to be even later than you already are.”

 

“Right, of course.” 

 

At least she's done it. She's going to call her and they'll see each other again and it's going to be fine, absolutely fine. Nothing left to do. She needs to go. So she moves to leave for real this time and as she reaches for the door knob, there's a hand on her waist. It's not demanding but Reed stops all the same, turning to see what's the matter. And before she knows it Stella's lips are pressed softly against her’s in a goodbye that makes her wish she didn't have to leave. And Stella’s hand cradles her face, the pad of her thumb sweeping over Reed’s cheek briefly before she pulls away whispering, “I'm glad you stayed.” Then Stella steps back and opens the door for her, “I'll see you this week.

 

Reed bites her lip, gives her a small nod and scurries from Stella’s flat down to the cab. Hopping in quickly and rattling off her sister's address, she turns to see Stella watching her from her still open door, leaning against the frame. Reed smiles at her and then they pull away.

 

She doesn’t stop the smiling the rest of the way home.

 

* * *

 

 

Flying out of the car at exactly 7:56am, she practically throws her money into the driver’s hands before jogging to the front door of Lydia’s flat. She'd called her sister in the cab to let her know that she'd still be taking the girls to school, and asked her to go about her day as usual. Like any good sister, Lydia told her that she'd made the girls breakfast and then immediately pressed her for details about the previous evening in a rushed whisper. Reed not-so-skillfully dodged her questions with a, “Can't talk now, see you soon,” before hanging up the phone. It’s bought her a few extra minutes but probably not much beyond that.

 

Oh well.

 

Hand on the doorknob, she makes one last ditch effort to put her hair into place before catching her reflection in the glass. There's no hope for her. She's just got to go in there and deal with the aftermath of her decisions. Suddenly it feels frightening and her stomach ties itself into a thousand knots. But she concedes that she’ll have to get over it because navigating this part of her life comes with the territory of her choices. She’d just truly wanted to be more careful than this, she’d wanted to get this right, not traumatize her children or put her sister in the position of covering for her carelessness. 

 

Yet here she is. 

 

So she turns the handle and there are her girls, sitting patiently on the steps dressed in their winter coats, backpacks on and waiting for her. They're giggling over some toy of Charlotte’s - a doll she’d picked out a few weeks ago - and it’s morphed into some absurd position that they find terribly amusing. But as soon as the door closes behind her, there’s a small click and she manages to draw their undivided attention.

 

“Mum!”

 

“Where were you?” Jane says with intense accusation and a scowl to match, one that only a twelve year-old could make so comical. “We’ve been waiting for ages.”

 

“I doubt it’s been  _ ages _ ,” Reed tells her, approaching the girls and letting her voice go all dramatic, which gets her absolutely nowhere with the disapproving child. “Where, uh, did Aunt Lydie say I was?”

 

“She said you went to the store…” Jane says doubtfully, brow still wrinkled. At least it’s a fairly tame explanation for why their mother should be gone when they wake for school, Reed thinks to herself, but she has the distinct impression that Jane’s getting too old for such appeasing explanations. “You don't have any bags, though,” she points out.

 

Shit, she really should have asked Lyd what she’d told the girls when they were on the phone instead of hanging up on her because this doesn’t look like it’s about to go very well. She’s really nailing this. “They didn't have what we needed, darling. Quite the interrogation for a Thursday morning, I must say. Did you sleep well?” she asks attempting to temper Jane’s suspicions. Trying her best to appear normal, she runs her fingers over the small braid resting on Jane’s shoulder and looks her in the eyes, hoping some maternal affection will do the trick. It does not.

 

“What did we need?”

 

“Orange juice.”

 

“We have orange juice.”

 

“We had some this morning!” Charlotte pipes up. At least she doesn't seem as skeptical as her older sister does. Charlotte sits there in her puffy purple jacket, content to passively observe in between distractions with her doll, which is still contorted with marvelous creativity.

 

“Well, I was afraid that we might run out,” she explains as Lyd walks in, eyebrows raised and grinning like mad, truly not helping at all. No wonder Jane doesn’t believe a word she’s saying. “But I suppose I shouldn't have been because now we're going to be late and I'm very sorry for making you wait.”

 

“Why are you wearing the same clothes from last night?” Jane asks relentlessly. Fuck, she was not prepared for her to come down so hard on her like this. Then again, she'd wanted to avoid this all together so she wasn’t really prepared for anything.

 

“You don't look very good, mum,” her smallest says sadly and Lydia’s laughing into her coffee at that one.

 

“Thank you, Charlotte.”

 

“I’m just being honest...”

 

“Well, it just so happens that I like this outfit very much so I decided to wear it again,” she tells her and it’s got Charlotte taking a second look to see if she agrees that the outfit truly warrants a second wear. “And sometimes mummies don't have time to look their best when they have to cart you two off to school every morning, which is exactly what we should be doing right now so grab your things. End of discussion, let's go.”

 

“I still don’t believe you,” Jane says haughtily.

 

“Why not?” Charlotte whispers.

 

“You don’t have to believe me but you do have to move,” Reed says putting her hands on her shoulders to nudge her along more quickly. 

 

“Have a wonderful day at school,” Lydia says bending down to give each of them a kiss as they shuffle through the door. Then as Reed passes, she gives her a taunting look that tells her how horribly that conversation just went. It’s entirely unnecessary though because she’s already cringing over it for probably the next 50 years and then some. 

 

* * *

 

 “Jesus fucking Christ, did you put them up to that?”

 

“God, no,” Lydia says from her laptop in the living room. She must be catching up on email otherwise Reed expected her to be up in her office or out at the studio by now. “Your offspring are too clever these days, don't blame that on me.”

 

“Remind me to let them watch more television,” Reed says collapsing down on the couch. She kicks off her shoes and curls up in her spot while trying to rub the stress from her eyes, “Ruthless they are, didn’t stop the entire way there.”

 

“Still not as ruthless as I’m about to be,” Lydia says putting down her coffee and snapping her computer shut. “Let’s start with: where in the fuck were you?”

 

Reed can do nothing but blush into herself and cover her face. The two of them have always been close but Lydia remains her junior by quite a few years. By the time her little sister had grown up enough to have these kinds of conversations, she’d already been with Daniel and was well on her way to marrying him. There weren’t many scandalous details to be shared between them. 

 

“I thought you were meeting your old coworker, that woman running the inquiry back in Belfast,” she continues when Reed still says nothing. She props herself forward, elbows on her knees, “What happened? Did you meet someone while you were out?”

 

“No.”

 

“Just got too knackered then did you?,” she assumes with a laugh. “You still could've come home - you know I don't mind. Could have been very entertaining and the girls sleep like the dead.”

 

“I didn't drink too much.” 

 

“Then what happened?” 

 

Reed doesn't really know how to formulate the words to answer her sister’s question. What was she supposed to say?  _ I went home with her, I slept with her, we fucked? _ All acceptable options, all true, but none of them true enough. What happened last night was layered and complex and if she just comes out and says it, it won’t be the whole truth. How to make Lydia understand when she scarcely understood it herself... She had no idea how to make her see what was simultaneously unravelling and building within her. Goddamn mess.

 

This wasn't a fluke though so she's going to have to come clean sooner or later and if she’s honest with herself, she wants to tell someone. She wants someone to talk it through with her because it’s a lot to process on her own, but the words just aren’t coming. So she looks at her with bashful eyes, wide with implication and hopes she'll connect the dots on her own.

 

She does not.

 

Just stares back impatiently. 

 

Dammit.

 

“Alright, um, back in Ireland…” she starts out, looking for the right phrasing. “Stella and I spent a lot of time together, working, discussing the case and whatnot. So we got rather close and last night, well,” she tries but ends up dropping off at the most important part. Thankfully it's enough that Lyd seems to catch on.

 

“Wait, you’re not saying - you didn't…”

 

Reed just stares at her and it's answer enough.

 

“So this is what all the business with Daniel is about then,” she concludes, jumping the gun.

 

“No-”

 

“Tanya-”

 

“Not entirely, no,” she says sternly and at least there's conviction in her voice because it's the truth, and she needs her to know that it's the truth. She won't have this morphing into something ugly. Maybe she’s not a saint and maybe she’s not a perfect mother, but she’s not whatever Lydia’s thinking she is either. Thankfully she waits for her to continue, ready to listen. “You know things haven’t been right at home for awhile. I've been telling you that, and that's true. Stella just came around near the end and got me thinking about what I really wanted.” There's silence between them as Lydia thinks on this, taking it in and remembering their discussions over the past few months, past few years. “Lyd, you know I wouldn’t just leave Dan for someone else, it’s not like that.”

 

Lydia looks at her for a moment before saying, “I know, I know you wouldn't,” shaking her head as if it could erase the thought. “Sorry I'm just surprised. I didn't even know you  _ liked _ women.” And if she didn't look just a little bit hurt by the realization, Reed might have found it a funny statement because it wasn't a huge part of her life, mostly left behind at school, she hasn't thought on it regularly. But now it must seem like some locked up secret she's been hiding all this time.

 

“Most of the time not so much,” she assures her gently and Lydia looks up, seeing the honesty in her eyes and softening. “Here and there. Back when I was dating, I'd thought about it. Overall though, Stella's a bit of an exception.” 

 

“Okay,” she says accepting but wary. “And nothing ever happened between you before last night?”

 

Reed hesitates, hugging her knees to her just a bit. Nothing had  _ really _ happened between them before last night but she had indeed almost accompanied her to her hotel room with the full intention of sleeping with her. Warrants mentioning. Maybe edited down but still.

 

“She kissed me once. Back in Belfast.”

 

“Oh really?” That piques her interest. She wonders what kind of picture she's painting for her sister and if it in any way resembles the truth.

 

“We were at a bar and there was someone bothering me, some guy,” she explains, smiles a little remembering the moment. Stella's audacity, her trust in Reed to roll with it, the look in her eyes when she realized that Reed had kissed her back. “He wouldn't leave, couldn't take a hint, so she kissed me...

 

“He left.”

 

“That's one way to do it.”

 

“Yeah,” Reed chuckles. “Bit of a shock.”

 

Lydia eyes her, she can feel herself smiling like an idiot. “So you stayed with her last night?” Reed nods. “And you're happy about it?” More nodding.

 

“Well then that's all that matters.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Course, I’m your sister. That's how this works.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Now, tell me everything.”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“No, fuck you.”

 

“Tanya!”

 

“Lydie!”

 

“You can’t go out all night and leave me with your adorable children without giving me details,” she argues exasperated. “Soooo tell me! What happened?”

 

“We had sex, is that what you want to hear?!”

 

“Yes, go on.”

 

“No!”

 

“It was that wild, huh?”

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“I can't believe you had wild lesbian sex and you won't even tell me about it.”

 

Reed shakes her head and covers her face asking herself over and over again “why me?” 

 

Then Lydia’s getting up from her chair and sitting directly in front of Reed on the coffee table, which makes avoiding her prescence aggrevatingly difficult. “Well if you won't talk about it, at least tell me what she's like,” Lyd says waxing romantic and leaving Reed entirely confused. First she’s irritated and jumping to conclusions, then she wants embarrassing details from her fumbling sexual encounter and now she’s going the sappy route? Her sister’s ability to shuffle through emotions is incomparable and it’s got Reed almost entirely curled into a ball with fingers splayed over her eyes.

 

“What do you want to know?”

 

“Well… What's she look like?”

 

“Blonde.”

 

“Oh I see,” she says teasingly as if that explains everything.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Okay, I'll shut up but you have to go on.”

 

“She's blonde,” Reed says again with a withering expression. “Um, she looks very feminine - in the way she dresses and everything - but she's not really.” She stops and Lyd gives her a look that says there’s no way in hell she’s accepting that so Reed tries to conjure up ways to explain Stella, as if it’s just that easy. “I think she comes off quite cold sometimes, business first and all that. But it’s only because she cares so much. She's actually incredibly kind if you’re paying attention, and very intelligent. She cares a lot about the important things and gives no fucks about the rest. I really admire that about her. I don’t know. That’s it, I guess.”

 

“I see how Dan lost out on this one,” and that's got Reed shooting her a warning look so she throws her hands up in surrender. “I'm only joking!” Reed smiles at her sister and even though she's a bit touchy about all this, she feels better having told her. “Really, she sounds great.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You going to see her again?”

 

“I think so. Think I'll phone her up, see if she’s free to grab coffee or something later. Harmless enough.”

 

“Hate to tell you but you’re screwed for a babysitter this weekend, I’ve got that trip to Brussels tomorrow, remember? Won’t be back until Tuesday.”

 

“Daniel’s actually coming down to take them to his mother’s for the weekend.”

 

“How convenient for you.”   
  


“I told you his parents are helping him look for a place down here.”

 

“Thought he was rather attached to that job of his,” Lydia says getting up to take her empty cup to the kitchen, apparently satisfied with her shakedown. “Didn’t know he’d follow through so quickly.”

 

“Seems he is,” Reed quietly responds. 

 

“Alright, just don’t fuck in my bed while I’m gone, okay?” she says popping her head around the doorway.

 

“I hate you.”

 

“You love me.”

 

“I do. Thank you for taking care of the girls this morning.”

 

“Anything for you.”

 

* * *

 

Stella is restless.

 

Working from home is difficult for her, which is why she rarely does it, especially for an entire day. Everything feels too loud and too quiet all at once and isn't that the story of her life whenever she's alone? She tried to distract herself at first, made a proper breakfast, wiped down everything, put on some tea. Then she'd decided there was nothing left to do but sit down and leaf through paperwork. It's been a few hours so files lay open here and there scattered over the coffee table while her laptop sits open at her side as she takes notes on cases that have been worked on in her absence. 

 

She's missed a lot.

 

The evidence sits before her, measured in countless sheets of paper detailing the brutalities committed across her city, some worse than others but all unjust in nature and cruel at heart. And where had she been, where had she really been? She’d been miles away letting a sadistic serial murderer fuck with her head while everyone around her suffered the consequences. Because it wasn't just the victims of his crimes, it was Tom’s career, Jim’s sobriety, Sally Ann's sanity, Olivia's innocence, her family, her trust in the world. Gone. All because of her carelessness, her incompetence, and she could have done things differently. Whether or not it would have saved any of them, she'll never know. Yet here she sits in her flat wading through case reports like nothing has changed.

 

It's intolerable. 

 

But nevertheless she tries to focus, to immerse herself in the most gruesome details of the cases left on her docket. Because even though she's screwed up, they still deserve her full fucking attention. Hours pass, maybe just minutes, she can't tell. And when she looks at the clock, it's clear that all of her efforts have resulted in little more than countless bouts of self loathing as she sits there with all of her failures in poignant silence. Painful company.

 

Maybe if she could just stop thinking about Olivia...

 

It's just that Stella had lost slowly as a child. One thing and then another, just as she was starting to heal, until there was little left. Nothing but anger. She'd been so angry in her youth, mostly angry with herself because when you're surrounded by nothingness there's nowhere else for blame to land but yourself. But now she can't stop thinking of Olivia who lost so much so fast. She wonders if there will be anyone there to help her come to terms with the burden of that blame. She wants to protect her from the things she knows will come for her. 

 

So she thinks about calling her. About paying her a visit. About how she might react to seeing her. If there would be another hug or simply accusation behind watery eyes, hurt heavy in her heart. Thinking of the way her small frame felt in her arms that day at the hospital fills her with the physical memory, the warmth and the way she had trembled and pulled tight at the fabric of her shirt. Unaware that just days before, she would have been clutching at the stains of her father’s blood. To lose a father… Stella had tried so desperately to save him. For justice, for those he had hurt so badly, those he had taken from. For Olivia.

 

And just thinking of their meeting has her on the verge of tears sitting alone in her flat and surprise surprise, she needs to get the fuck out of here.

 

Within the next 10 minutes, she’s gathered her bag and locked the door behind her. And then within the next 15 minutes, she's gotten herself to the gym and she's wearing her swimsuit, walks out to the consistently clear water of the pool. The rough concrete floor scrapes against her feet as she stands at the edge. She really shouldn't let it but she stands there feeling the sting, digging her flesh into the textured stone a few moments longer than she should.

 

And when she dives in, she moves herself forward and breathes when she's supposed to. 

 

* * *

 

 

She doesn't want to go home but she's exhausted herself in the pool. Not-quite-healed ribs don't do one any favors when swimming laps. They especially don't do one any favors when one continues on in spite of their protests. So she's exhausted and aching but she's still contemplating whether or not to run herself down a bit more with some other needless task. Shopping, coffee, dinner for that matter but no, she's not hungry, a drink - that’s not a bad idea. She could try working again. Maybe out of the house, take her things to the cafe round the corner and a few blocks down. Probably her best bet. If she decides she wants dinner, she can pick up food there and then she won't have to feel so guilty about the extra laps.

 

So she wanders back to her flat, dropping her bag upstairs and fussing with her hair before she makes to change her clothes. Her body complains before she can even fully undress and she’s irritated because she knows better than to push herself when she's already hurt. A few more minutes of stretching might be in her best interest so she climbs over onto her bed and lies in her back, bringing her left leg to her chest and the the right leg. Eventually she's just lying there, having stretched out her legs and trying to find the energy to continue. She needs to move, sit up.

 

Everything in her feels heavy.

 

And then there's a distant sound ringing through her flat.

 

What is that? It's not particularly loud but loud enough to be a nuisance. 

 

Shit, it's her mobile.

 

She sits up and it's pitch black in her room save the few shadows cast around in the moonlight. After fighting back a moment of serious confusion, she realizes that she must've fallen asleep. And then she's immediately anxious that she's fucked up because surely there's something she was supposed to be doing. But then she remembers that she's not really working and apparently has nothing better to do than exhaust herself so fully that she passes out trying to stretch on her own damn bed. Pathetic.

 

There's still ringing.

 

So she jumps up to retrieve it before the call goes to voicemail and thankfully it's just lying a few feet from her on the dresser. 

 

Reed.

 

“Hello?” 

 

“Hi, it's Reed,” she says and she's whispering over the line. Stella likes it, it’s calming having just woke. “Sorry for the hour, just got the girls down.”

 

“It’s alright,” Stella responds and her voice hasn't quite recovered from her nap yet because it's gravelly, there's no mistaking it.

 

“Did I wake you?” Reed asks confused because it's absurd to think of Stella going to bed before 9pm.

 

“No,” she says immediately before realizing that it's a lie and she doesn't need to lie to Reed. “No, I mean, yes,” and she even has to laugh at how disoriented she sounds. “Seems I dozed off. I swam at the gym and must've gone longer than I should have. Worn out.”

 

“Ah, I see. I can call back later, I'm sure you need the rest.”

 

“No, don't be silly, I'm awake,” she says sitting back on her bed and making herself comfortable against the pillows. “Did you get home in time to take the girls to school?”

 

“Yes and in time for a full lecture from my twelve year old as well. It was insanity. She's far too clever for her own good.”

 

“Children are much more clever than we give them credit for.” She wonders if this sounds strange coming from her, a childless woman who spends very little time with children. And it’s not that she doesn’t like children but her job, not to mention her personal life, offers very little in the way of them. Even if it did, would things be any different? Stella doubts it. Children have a way of wandering into her psyche and not find their way out for some time. It’s exactly her problem right now as she tries to push Olivia’s sweet face from her dreamy visions. “...They notice everything.”

 

“So I'm learning,” she says defeatedly and Stella hates the sound of it on her. But before she can say anything to counteract it, Reed jumps back in. “Anyway, I'm calling to see if you're free for lunch tomorrow.”

 

“Tomorrow’s Friday?” she says checking her wrist for a watch that isn’t there. Why she even bothers is a mystery altogether since she’s not busy in the slightest. Taking time for herself feels more exhausting than not having any at all. “Yeah, I am.”

 

“I've got a 3 o’clock meeting at the university but I thought maybe we could meet up at 1.”

 

“Sure, that works,” she says and she hadn’t really expected Reed to call so soon but she’s undeniably grateful for the excuse to fill her seemingly boundless time with her company. “I know a place near there that might be good unless you’ve already got something in mind.”

 

“No, that’s perfect, just text me the address.”

 

“Alright, I will.”

 

“Great,” and it sounds relieved like something she’s been worrying on that’s finally settled, which makes Stella smile. Not for the first time today, she wonders why Reed spends so much time worrying on Stella’s interest when she’s the one who practically tried to drag her into bed during the middle of case. Then she’s kicking herself for doing that for the millionth time when Reed’s voice interrupts her thoughts, “So how was your day?”

 

“My day?”

  
  
“Yes your day.” She can hear Reed smiling through the phone at her idiocy. 

 

“Oh, well, long,” she admits and closing her eyes and trying not to think about her continuously failed efforts to keep herself on task. “Not being able to go back to work is taking it’s toll on me, I’m afraid.”

 

“I don’t need to tell you that you need it,” Reed says patiently and it’s what she’s supposed to say so Stella’s not all that surprised. “Even if you think you don’t.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Monday’s just around the corner.” Her mantra from Reed’s lips is music to her ears. It’s not too far off, she’ll be fine. “And the girls are off with their father this weekend,” Reed ventures whimsically and the low warmth in her voice has Stella smirking to herself. 

 

“Oh, they are?”

 

“Yes,” she says drawing out the word flirtatiously and Stella finds herself biting her lower lip trying to suppress the growing smile there. “So if you need a distraction, I’ll gladly volunteer.” 

 

“Noted, very good to know.” 

 

Stella sinks further into her pillows cradling the phone to her ear and listens to Reed, thinking that these next few days might not be so tortuous after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to @TheRobbinsGang, @JenSchwartz21, and @SpookyHadley! This one's a doozy.

In the morning, she washes her face at the bathroom sink.

 

The water is hot as she wipes away the suds foaming from her face scrub, trying to avoid getting anymore in her already stinging eyes. She can feel the ache in her muscles leftover from the day before and perhaps she’ll go back for another, easier, swim this afternoon. Maybe it’ll help. Droplets slide down her wrist leaving goosebumps in their wake, and then they’re all over. Suddenly she catches a full chill that runs up her spine, icy fingers at the base of her skull.

 

She hates this part, the part where she can’t see, where she’s blind to her surroundings, so she cups her hands taking an extra large handful of water and pours it over over face attempting to wash away the rest of the soap. As she cracks her eyes to see if it worked, she notices that there’s still bits lingering around her hairline, tiny pearling clusters that remain tediously elusive.

  
And then she stops noticing, quickly turns off the faucet.

 

Shit.

 

She swears she hears it, the sound of something - someone - on the stairs. That familiar creak of tired wood bending under the burden of passing travelers. Soft but there. And then there’s her heartbeat and she hears that too.

 

They’re not one in the same.

 

She steps back into her bedroom quietly, looks to her bedside table for her weapon. This is stupid, there’s nothing there but if there were, she should open the drawer and grab the gun. But that’s idiotic, she's being irrational. Standing near the door of her bedroom, still as can be, she listens. And then she’s inching forward to look over the threshold and there’s still nothing there.

 

Absolutely nothing.

 

She’s becoming paranoid, one of those people who lives alone and panics at every gust of wind against glass. Spector. Fucking asshole. She goes back to the bathroom because she won’t be terrified in her own home. He’s dead, she'd seen the body. He’d taken his life without a second thought, left countless broken in the wake of his cowardice and she refuses to be one of them. Absolute fucking dick.

 

So she tries to settle her heart with deep breaths, in the nose, out the mouth. She repeats this and returns to her sink, turns on the faucet and tries not to think, tries not to hear, tries to find her inner sanctum no matter how cliche it might sound. There’s just her and the water and this morning. Nothing else.

 

Testing the water with her hand, she waits a few seconds for it to become hot again and breathes steadily. She does this several times until the hot water burns and stings against her skin. Then she bends her face down to sweep the it across her hairline, does it a few times until she’s sure it must be gone. Sometimes these calming exercises work, sometimes they don’t, but right now she’s feeling a bit of the former as the warm water trails off her chin and down her neck. Lifting her head to look in the mirror, her blood runs cold.

 

Behind her. Something moves. Something dark clips all too quickly from her line of sight and adrenaline spikes up under skin. She needs her weapon, should have grabbed it. She looks around. Her blow dryer’s no substitute for a gun. Act, she needs to act. Needs to get to her bedside drawer.

 

Moving to leave, to retrieve it and take care of whoever the hell is in her house, she jumps and stumbles back as the bathroom door slams shut in her face with a loud thud.

 

The shower curtain rips open next to her, and fuck, she's absolutely fucked. Grabbing for something, her blow dryer, curling iron, anything, she feels a tight fist wrap around her arm and before she can reach it he’s got hold of her.

 

He’s wearing black, a mask, and he’s much larger than her, stronger, and she’s strong but not this strong. It’s a crushing sort of strength that has her confused and she knows she can injure him if she just gets some leverage but he’s already wrestling her to the ground and fuck, fuck, fuck, how did this happen? Both arms are pinned beside her and the full weight of his body is on her’s in seconds.

 

Her eyes go watery while her ribs scream under the pressure, she’s not fully healed, it hurts like hell. She can’t breathe.

 

And then there’s his voice cooing in her ear. Her name slips from his mouth like a lover’s caress and it comes out coddling, patronizing in the face of his complete power over her. Igniting a simultaneous bout of fear and rage she can only think one thing over and over, _it's impossible_. Blue lips, lifeless eyes, condensation clouded over plastic. She needs to be able to move, why can’t she move?

 

He’s smiling, she can’t see it but she can tell, gleeful that she’s struggling and wasting her energy. It's useless because he’s settled over her, has her arms fixed to her sides against the tile of her goddamn bathroom floor. His hands are unbelievably strong in their grip, unmoving like stone, painful against her efforts. And then she feels her stomach bottom out, bile rising in her throat as his thumbs abandon the task of keeping her immobile to trace the outer curve of her breasts through her cotton camisole.

 

“You kept my note.”

 

She can’t even scream, she's going to be sick.

 

“He that loves-” one of his hands moves to wrap around her throat.

 

“-abides not-” squeezing and there's water on her face, her tears.

 

“-in death.” So tight she thinks this is it and then he eases them, brings his face closer to hers. His lips graze hers and his mouth smells putrid. It is nothing like a kiss.

 

“It won't save you.”

 

She jolts violently awake.

 

Heaving, everything, her whole body. Her heart’s racing and she sits upright, looks around and then collapses back down into her pillows, feels the claminess of sweat cling to her back. Dream, just a dream. Nothing but her subconscious at work, neurons firing, conjuring images. Deep breaths, count backwards from 100, relax.

 

After a few minutes, she realizes it isn’t working. Too much adrenaline. She turns over to her nightstand and grabs her journal, flipping it open to reveal clean white pages, empty and waiting. Pen hovering in her hand, she considers capping it and stowing it away. This habit doesn’t own her, she doesn’t even know if it helps at this point. But it’s a habit and her habits are torturously hard to break.

 

And then it hits her, the intense desire to cry washing over her, the burning clench of her throat, needles in her eyes. Not for the first time, she feels distinctly cheated out of the sanctity of this private ritual - it wasn't his to take from her and yet he'd taken it anyway. It’s what makes her touch the pen to paper and wipe her face, shake it off, he can’t have her thoughts and her dreams and her goddamn journal.

 

Once she’s done jotting down his name too many times for comfort, she knows she won’t sleep here. So, she tucks the leather-bound pages away and throws back the comforter. Pulling on her heavier robe, she brings the phone downstairs and much to her own defeat, checks the locks as she goes.

 

Since she’s home, Stella will put in a movie that she liked as a child and hopefully fall back to a dreamless sleep on the couch. She doesn’t own many movies because they don’t hold her attention. And when would she ever watch them? But there are a few she keeps stashed in the drawer of her coffee table for nights like this, films that she can tuck around herself and curl up with, pretend that years haven’t passed.

 

As she inserts the DVD and clicks all of the appropriate buttons to make it work, she settles back into her couch and gathers the squishy throw pillow under her head. The glow of the television proves itself to be a comforting nightlight as she reminds herself not to look for the shadows. Paired with the familiar tune of an overture too picturesque for looming monsters, she thinks that it might just do the trick. Might just drown out the completely normal sounds of her settling flat. Might just wrap her in a fabricated cocoon of safety, a refuge lost at hands of many. Might just lull her into forgetting how much she hates.

 

Everything.

 

* * *

 

Morning comes and with it a rare cloudless sky. Sun blindly bathes London in a slightly delusional, beautiful display of a spring-like brilliance. A few days out of the year, the city loses itself in a stunning identity crises and this is one of those days.

 

Lunch finally rolls around without a hint of awkwardness from Reed who is in soaring spirits and looking at her as if she's as bright as the day waiting beyond the restaurant doors. It makes a certain place inside Stella twist uncomfortably and she tells herself to ignore it. Because Reed’s in front of her bursting with positive energy and she knows that's an empirically good thing.

 

So, she focuses on appreciating the simplicity of listening to Reed rattle on about such wonderfully mundane things as grading systems and classroom space, her excitement over an upcoming meeting, and starting this new position in the following semester. Until then, it sounds like most of her time is filled with ironing out details, shuffling lessons around and preparing the materials she’ll need. Still, Stella can't help but think that listening to her talk about it feels particularly foreign, such a drastic departure from the world they’d been living in. Maybe that’s the whole point.

 

Definitely the whole the point.

 

It's better this way. It’s what Stella wants, what they both want. Nevertheless, she can’t shake the sense of loss sinking into her as she sits across the table.  

 

“I’m slightly terrified of putting them through all of the horrors I experienced in medical school,” Reed laughs, picking at the remains of her salad and pulling Stella back to the conversation. She should be paying attention instead of wandering pointlessly through the minefield laid out conspicuously inside her brain. “But I suppose some of those things are inevitable.”

 

“Can't be too hard on yourself,” Stella says knowing that regardless of where things ended up while she was drifting, it deserves to be said. “New jobs are always an adjustment, new people, new environment, a lot to take in. It'll take time like anything else.”

 

Even as the words leave her mouth, they a trail a taste of acid on her tongue. Proverbial wisdoms that everyone is supposed to prescribe, and in turn accept, simply because of their righteousness - not really her thing. _Time heal all wounds. Everything comes with time_. _It’ll take time like anything else_. Somewhere down the line these phrases were ordained enduring truths by the masses, difficult to disprove and placid enough to trust. As they roll mockingly through her psyche all she can think is that she’s a hypocrite. Momentarily Stella feels as though she’s let herself down but then a small voice let’s her off the hook. Reminds her that even though none of that morally ambitious philosophy ever rings true for her, Reed is better. Maybe the ‘right’ advice works for her when it’s supposed to.

 

“I just really want it to go well,” Reed says nodding in agreement, zoning off in the direction of Stella’s shoulder. Stella’s reassurances haven't seemed to phase her either way and Reed’s still nodding slowly, incrementally before she snaps out of it and says. “Suppose I’m nervous…don't need any creeping doubts that this move and everything has all been a massive mistake.”

 

“It's a big change, doubt tends to follow. Warranted or not,” Stella offers, feeling a bit better about that one. But her concerns over it fade quickly into background noise as Stella vainly attempts to compartmentalize Reed’s statement, brushing off the niggling sensation that she should feel hurt by those last two words.

 

Massive mistake.

 

Stella tells herself that they aren't meant for her. But there's another part that immediately decides that she and this big change, potential-massive-mistake, are one in the same. Perhaps it’s an unnecessarily narcissistic jump. If nothing else, the two surely share the same space amongst Reed’s worries.

 

“Yeah,” Reed replies somberly, and Stella needs to get out of her head and pay attention. Reed’s gone from cheerful to sullen in a matter of seconds and Stella can't quite piece together how that happened. But before she gets the chance to ask, Reed continues. “I've never done anything so drastic without anyone's approval but my own. Seems stupid, I'm a grown woman, I know. I just don't want to give anyone the chance to rub it in my face. Say _I told you so_.”

 

“You mean your sister?”

 

It’s not a terrible guess but Stella must miss the mark by miles because Reed seems taken aback at the suggestion. But then her dark eyes tilt upward, rolling the thought over like she might be considering it anyway. Still nothing. With a brief sigh and firm shake of the head, Reed brings in her shoulders, fortifying herself without realizing, and whatever’s going on in there must have struck a nerve.

 

“More like my husband.”

 

Husband, there it is.

 

“Hmm,” Stella hums in response, an array of several emotions at play.

 

After all, discovering that Reed’s married isn't entirely a shock to the system, she'd been waiting for this piece of the puzzle, thinking on it. Stella's been with a lot of different kinds of people and even though Reed doesn't necessarily seem married, doesn't quite fit the bill of _married woman_ , she doesn't seem entirely unattached either. And as much as Stella feels like she knows and understands Reed from their shared experiences together, she finds her to be equal parts mystery at times. Like now. Stella's not one for prying, not one to push but this question over Reed’s partner has been playing quietly in the back of her mind perhaps since the day they met. And Stella’s envisioned different scenarios for her - married had been one of them. So even if it's not necessarily a shock, Stella can't deny that she's intensely curious.

 

“I didn't really mention him at dinner the other night.”

 

“Or ever.”

 

“Or ever,” Reed says self-consciously, toying with her hands. “But the separation and the move are a bit one-in-the-same…

 

“He's not very happy about it,” she concludes and there's a certain harshness to the meeting of her brows.

 

“Sounds like that might be putting it lightly.”

 

“You have no idea.”

 

Reed looks stressed over the thought, eyes downcast, picking at an undeserving nail bed. And while others in Stella's position might feel threatened by this new element at play, shut down or react badly, she remains neutral. Stella’s intrigued, inherently interested in a way that has much more to do with Reed as a person than as a sexual partner.

 

“Enlighten me.”

 

“Really?” Reed’s expression is just a step short of wonderment and perhaps it's because she expected Stella to be upset. Perhaps it's because she wants Stella to be upset. Stella really doesn't know, she can only react in accordance with her thoughts, which are pulling in several directions leaving her to waft in the middle.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because,” Reed laughs a little like it should be obvious, and to anyone else it might be. Stella's always been a bit of a masochist.

 

“I don't mind.”

 

Reed eyes her curiously before accepting Stella's strange ease with the situation and moving on to explaining herself.

 

“That night back in Belfast…” Reed shakily starts, struggling to find the phrasing and Stella really doesn’t need an explanation to know the particular night to which she’s referring. “It was like a moment of clarity, I suppose. I don't know how else to describe it. The realization that I'd been trying so hard for so long to be happy in a construct that wasn't working for me. My marriage, that town, even my job… I just realized how desperate I was to get away from there and I guess it blindsided him. Can't really blame him for being upset.”

 

“So all this time he’s supposed to have thought you were blissfully happy then?” Stella knows the answer even before she asks it, but she does it anyway to make a point.

 

“Well, no. By the end of things it felt like neither of us were ever home with the girls, and when we were there was so much fighting,” she concedes. And Stella can see just from the change in Reed’s demeanor how much this has been wearing on her. She looks instantly exhausted, barely enough energy to find the right words. But then a strange sort of smile twists at Reed’s lips, one that Stella’s never seen before. “Now it's a different kind of fighting.”

 

A different kind of fighting? Stella’s so distracted by Reed’s expression that she can barely keep up. And then it clicks. The smirk. The husband. The fact that Reed’s sitting here with Stella.

 

“Because he wants to work it out?” Reed nods in the affirmative. “And you don't.”

 

It's not a question but maybe it should be.

 

“I think he _thinks_ he wants to work it out…” Reed responds warily and the assessment makes sense to Stella because she's met many men that don't like to lose what's theirs _._ So many of them have passed through her life over the years, most of them never realizing the true value of what they're fighting for.

 

“I don't know. I'm questioning so many things right now,” Reed laughs at herself pitifully and Stella waits for her to elaborate. “He says he wants to find a place down here, find a new job, find a way to ‘fix things.’ I never thought he'd leave that job, not in a million years. And he says he doesn't want to be so far from the girls but he's never really shown up on their behalf in recent years. Truthfully, I thought it was all bullshit,” she says rubbing at a spot on her forehead. Stella wonders who Reed’s been leaning on. If it's her sister. If so, Stella wonders what Lydia makes of all this. “But he’s picking them up tonight after school and he says he's looking at a few places over the weekend with them so I don't really know what to think anymore…

 

“I'm sorry I shouldn't be telling you all this. My life is a disaster.”

 

“No it's not.”

 

“Still, I shouldn't be bothering you with it.”

 

“You can talk to me about him, I don't mind. I can't promise an unbiased opinion but the offer stands.”

 

Reed smiles and holds her eyes. “Well, thank you.” A mixture of warmth and relief lingers in her gaze now and it's much better than the strain there just moments ago. But then Reed sighs and it sounds less like a release and more like a groan of frustration. “Anyway, the point is that he's already angry, I don't need to give him any more ammunition.”

 

Stella immediately has a lot of thoughts, a lot of things she could say, but there's really only one that Reed needs to hear right now. “You're going to be brilliant. And even if it all goes horribly wrong, you don't have to justify yourself to anyone - not to him, not to me, not to your sister. Your choices are yours and no one else's. There's nothing wrong with owning all the parts of yourself.”

 

“Even the shit parts?”

 

“You don't have any.”

 

“You just haven't seen them yet.”

 

As Reed looks at her playfully, Stella’s mobile begins ringing and she has no idea who to expect. But once she fishes it from her coat pocket, she recognizes that it's work and her heart picks up the pace just at the sight. “I have to get this,” she says meeting Reed’s eyes briefly before hitting the accept button.

 

“Gibson.”

 

“DC Hollins, mam. I've been instructed to call and notify you that there's been a break in the Sophia Nichols case. CS Spencer and DSI Westfield are requesting your presence for an interview as soon as possible.”

 

“I can be there in 20 minutes.”

 

“I'll let them know, mam.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Work?”

 

“Seems I have to go,” she says already in motion, retrieving a few notes from her wallet and setting them down on the table. She should stop at home, there are a few things there that she'd like to have before going into the office but it sounds like time was of the essence, she'll have to make do. “Sorry to cut things short.”

 

“Don't worry about it, I hope it's nothing too serious.”

 

“I’ll know when I get there,” she says, doing up a few buttons on her coat. She has the inclination to elaborate but stops herself because they no longer work together and it’s going to take some active severing to remove Reed from that line of thinking. Then Stella’s grabbing her purse and normally she wouldn't feel too bad about something like this, leaving unexpectedly, comes with the territory. But suddenly she feels remorseful. “Good luck with your meeting, I'll call you.”

 

Reed smiles and nods watching Stella leave.  
  


* * *

 

“Well, well, well. Look who's back in action,” Westfield says as she pushes through the doors striding toward him with purpose. A swift cloud of rumbling thunder, lightning crackling every step of the way just knowing she's been allowed back a day or two early. She would have been fine, she would have made it but she's glad she doesn't have to.

 

“It's good to be back,” she says her coat already halfway off and hanging over one arm, an evident swing of her hips and set of her shoulders that hasn't been there in some time. Looking around at the handful of colleagues working the case in her absence, she finds them convened in a conference room waiting for her. Sophia’s case had been fairly high profile when it broke, crimes against a politician’s daughter tend to have that effect, and Stella knows the details better than anyone. They didn't necessarily have to call her in but looking around, they appear grateful to see her there.

 

“Hollins, get DSI Gibson setup to listen in on interview 5, they should have cleared it by now for us. The suspect is in holding but they can bring him in,” Spencer tells Hollins, who nods and gives Stella a slight smile as she leaves to follow her instructions. Then Stella’s boss approaches her, “I’d apologize for calling you in but I hear we're having trouble keeping you away.”

 

The look Spencer gives her is admonishing and amused in the same breath, and all Stella can do in response is shrug her shoulders, a small lift of her brow that says, _you should have known_. Having worked under Spencer for some time, Stella knows that she likes the woman. Although they have their differences and aren't particularly close, they have a firm understanding of each other that works in this professional capacity.

 

“The Smithe kid just got picked up on drug charges in the east end. Now that we've got him here, we need to find out what he knows about the night Sophia went missing.”

 

“Understood,” Stella says thinking that she needs to swing back to her desk first and collect a copy of the casefile. It had been hot and cold for over a year now and even though she knows it like the back of her hand, it still feels like it’s been ages since she worked on it with any sort of devotion.

 

“Here you go,” and like clockwork, James Colgan arrives at her side with a small stack of paper.

 

“Thank you,” she says while an overwhelming sense of gratitude for him blooms beneath her chest. “Are you conducting the interview?”

 

“Yes, mam.”

 

“Good.”

 

Then James is walking away to the interview room and Stella thumbs briefly through the files he'd handed her.

 

“Shall we?” asks Westfield and Stella hadn't noticed that he'd stuck around but there he is, beckoning her to follow him. Would he be listening in with her? Of course he would, he's taken lead on the case while she was gone, naturally he would be there. It's fine. So she shuffles her files back into place and nods, leaving the room and turning down the hall. She doesn't wait for him, maybe it's rude but she's not terribly interested in making nice with the man. When he'd transferred in, he'd stuck out to her immediately and not necessarily in a good way. But he's the relentless type so he jogs a few paces to catch up with her.

 

“Good to have you back behind the wheel,” he says approaching and falling into step. She nods appreciatively but says nothing, which is apparently a mistake. “You look great.”

 

It's a prime example of why she's not terribly fond of being left alone with him. It's harmless enough but wearisome, inappropriate.

 

“I look the same.”

 

“Well you've always looked great.”

 

She tries very hard not to roll her eyes as they join the others in the observation room.

 

* * *

 

 

As Reed saunters back to their table, Stella can't help but notice how entirely fuckable she looks.

 

After hours stuck in that interview listening to their lead suspect prove completely invaluable, Stella was ready for a drink so she'd phoned Reed. Twenty minutes later they'd ended up at some place around the corner from Reed’s flat - well, her sister’s flat - that Reed very worriedly told her over the phone probably wasn't “her scene.” Immediately intrigued, Stella asked for the address so they could meet there. The temptation to discover what Reed deemed unsuitable for her based on their nights consisting of too many cups of stale coffee was almost irresistible. And while Reed wasn't entirely wrong, this place is one step up from a university basement party, it’s also as good a place as any to get properly drunk on a Friday night. Amongst the kaleidoscope of colored lights whirling over moving bodies, they'd managed to snag a small table against the wall and Stella's already thrown back one tequila soda as Reed returns with two more.

 

“Thought you were a whiskey girl,” Reed had said with an impressed eyebrow when Stella first ordered it from the bar.

 

Stella responded with a purposely vague “I am many things,” eyeing the bartender with a look that commanded attention.

 

But it’s true, she normally doesn’t touch tequila. Tonight however is an exception because they’re in a dive bar and one look at Reed’s outfit told her she’d need it. Having got there a few minutes before Reed, Stella scoped out their little hole-in-the-wall. Glancing around she had to admit the place had a decent vibe and at least there wasn’t underwear hanging from the ceiling, so she made her way to the bar. Thankfully before she could order, she’d heard the tell-tale “Hey” of Reed’s voice behind her and that’s when she saw it, the leather skirt that took Reed from fuckable to _entirely_ fuckable in two seconds flat. It was black and shiny and looked remarkably different from the ones Stella wore - actually it could be exactly the same and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. Because Stella’s immediate inclination to drag Reed out of here in favor of a flat surface is more about the entire picture it paints. A dusky silhouette involving a pair of over-the-knee boots and low-cut blouse. Flowy twilight material that attracts ships to shore. It makes her look like she invented sex, orchestrated the whole thing for the sole purpose of publicly embarrassing Stella. But she stands there innocently, waiting for Stella to form any sort of  intelligible response beyond “Hello.” When nothing else comes, Reed flushes a little under her fuckstruck gaze and passes it all off as an excuse for her first “legitimate night out in years,” which falls on Stella’s distractedly deaf ears.

 

So tequila it is.

 

And as Reed returns from grabbing their second set of drinks, Stella listens to the pulsing music around her and lets the liquor do its job, tries to find that quiet place inside where things don’t phase her. Leather included. But then Reed’s there next to her, putting down two glasses of vaguely amber-colored liquid on the table and bringing her hands to her thighs, adjusting the fit of the skirt against her hips. The leather pulls and stretches over the curve of her ass in a way that has Stella royally screwed, so fucking screwed.

 

So she reaches for a glass and swallows.

 

And when Reed’s done pulling at her clothes, she sits down and angles herself towards Stella, leaning in enough that the lace of her bra flirts with the dangerously low neckline of that top. It's black, some delicate expensive thing no doubt. Not that she cares. She's trying to be immune, she needs survive the next few hours in order to appreciate it properly later on. So she tears her eyes up only to see Reed trying and failing to hide her amusement with Stella’s not so subtle staring.

 

“Let's play a game.”

 

A game? Stella's not one for games, not one to entertain diversions that serve no purpose, she doesn't have the patience for it. She’s also not one for exhibitions of unbridled playfulness, that much she thought was obvious. Thinking back on it, she can’t remember the last time she played a game that wasn’t for the sake of occupying a child. That’s who games are for, not adults. But here they are, at a bar of all places and Reed wants to play a game. It’s got Stella immediately unnerved because Reed’s buoying in the surf of her night-off high. She's glittering from the inside out and it would be a shame to steal the stardust from her eyes. Red light keeps washing over her features in the most attractive way making everything go vividly monochromatic. And she’s looking at Stella with barely bated anticipation. It's really not fair. Stella's not sure what she’s willing to agree to if it means preserving the air around her.

 

So she's sips on her drink long enough to pin Reed with a skeptical stare and throws out a noncommittal, “Depends on the game.”

 

“20 questions.”

 

Still fresh in her mind, Stella can't help but think back to the hospital, that kind doctor who'd essentially asked her to do the same thing, using her head injury as an excuse. Open-endedly agreeing to reveal things about herself was decidedly not something she’d ever enjoyed. It left her feeling raw, exposed in a way that she’d rather avoid. But at the time, she’d been too tired to fight him over it. She's not feeling tired now.

 

“Tempting but no.”

 

“Oh, come on!”

 

“Tell me, how exactly does this even constitute a game?”

 

“Fair point,” Reed concedes, considering the counter argument and biting the bottom of her lip - also startlingly unfair. Reed must strike gold there because she looks up with a plan already set in motion. “How about for every question you answer, I'll buy you a shot.”

 

“You're going to buy me twenty shots?” Stella spars back, blowing holes in that deal before it could go very far. If she were a different sort of person maybe ‘games’ like this wouldn’t be so difficult for her, maybe she’d find them entertaining, enjoyable even. Maybe Reed wouldn’t be so exasperated. Maybe.

 

“Fine, it doesn’t have to be twenty.”

 

Stella looks at her plainly then, finds her hopeful expression endearing. Soft brown pleading eyes, an enticing _please_ etched in the gilded flecks there. Taking her in, Stella realizes that she wants to give Reed certain things. She wants to give her answers if she needs them. Not to everything and not all at once, but some things. She wants to give her fears a rest, wants to let Reed forget the worries resting with her at night. She wants to give her a good night-out. She wants to give her fun if that’s what her life’s been lacking.

 

And why this is Reed’s definition of _fun_ , Stella cannot reason. But a few questions won’t kill her. Aided by alcohol, she might even find a way to _not_ hate it. Besides, questions are questions, nothing more. She is in control of the important part, she can reveal or not reveal whatever she chooses.

 

She caves.

 

“5 shots, 5 questions,” she says rather unenthusiastically. “Choose wisely.”

 

Reed assess Stella’s pared down concession with a calculating expression, weighing her options. “You’re quite the negotiator.”

 

“Limited time offer.”

 

Without another word, Reed’s back up and off to the bar giving Stella a smirk over the shoulder and quite the view as she goes. Once she disappears behind the anonymous crowd, Stella’s left to herself again, left to wonder what on earth she’s just gotten herself into. Hopefully Reed’s intuitive enough to analyze the setting, to know not to ask certain things in public. But there’s a deep fear seeding in Stella’s stomach, fear that this is nothing more than a ruse for Reed to ask about things Stella would rather leave unsaid. Reed wouldn’t do that, she reasons. Remembering the scratches and the scars, Reed knows Stella doesn’t like that sort of thing.

 

Before she can get too worked up over it, Reed’s back with the assistance of a small tray and five inconspicuous shot glasses filled moderately with tequila. Taking her seat, Reed unceremoniously sets one in front of Stella spilling a bit of it down the side.

 

“First question, are you ready?”

 

Yes. Looking at the shot and casting away the voice that tells her this is a bad idea, she decides it’s Game On. She can talk about herself without the world swallowing her whole. It’s just Reed.

 

In a sleazy bar. Looking happy.

 

She can do this.

 

“What’s your sign?” she asks with a tickled expression and Stella falters, not understanding the question and suddenly it feels like this is all a joke that she doesn’t get. Her jaw tilts inquiringly in Reed’s direction until Reed elaborates, “Astrological sign.”

 

“Seriously?” Reed looks at her pointedly as if she should've known it would be like this. Silly questions. Nothing too painful. Fun. Stella sighs and tries to find groove in herself where she can sit comfortably, play along, release her defensiveness over something so frivolous. She tries but she’s not sure it works. “Scorpio.”

 

“See, that wasn't so hard,” she says giving Stella’s first shot a little nudge, _here's the reward for your bravery._ Stella picks it up as Reed muses, “Scorpio… That’s the Scorpion, right?” Stella nods lifting the small glass to her lips and Reed gives her an appraising look. “Who's surprised?”

 

“No one,” she scoffs before throwing it back with ease and letting the warm liquid burn down her throat. She doesn't drink tequila often and she doesn't take shots often, but she knows how to put away liquor cleanly. Reed holds out a lime wedge for her and Stella looks at it baffled once more.

 

“It's supposed to help.”

 

She waves it off as if Reed had just offered her a tic-tac. “What're you?”

 

“Aries - the ram. I don’t actually know much about all that except I’m fairly certain that we’re intensely incompatible. Fire and water,” Reed says, amused with their cosmic rebellion.

 

“Figures.”

 

“Alright,” she says sliding the next shot glass in front of Stella, shifting in her seat to gear up for the next question, a childlike excitement taking over. Stella finds herself torn between thinking it's adorable and wanting to kiss her. Not mutually exclusive feelings, true, but she’s still a little wary about the questions to come, would like to retain her guard until it’s over. It’d be easier to keep up if Stella didn’t get carried away by the sight of her every five fucking minutes. Four questions to go. Four questions and the first was easy enough. She implores herself to find enough patience to get through this gracefully. “Favorite book?”

 

“The Lighthouse.” Done. Two down, three to go and without hesitation she throws back the second shot. It goes down a little raw and makes her wish she had some water. She clears her throat.

 

“I've never read it.”

 

“Have you ever read Virginia Woolf?”

 

“No.”

 

“She's not for everyone.”

 

“Anything worth reading rarely is.”

 

“Touché,” Stella admits before placing the next shot in front of Reed. Comically, Reed lifts her eyebrows in a theatrical display of bemusement. “If you don't want me completely useless later…” Stella reasons simply, letting her voice trail off in a way that sets implications in motion, running wild into the depths of Reed’s dilating stare.

 

“Fine,” She says taking the shot in her nimble fingers. Assessing it quickly, she drains it in one go and reaches for the lime with a sour face. It does the trick Stella notices and Reed powers through, looking at her with question number three locked and loaded. “Favorite spot in London?”

 

“Kew Gardens.”

 

“That’s such a cop-out, everybody loves Kew.”

 

“I can't be blamed if the masses get it right on occasion.”

 

“I can’t believe I just took a shot for ‘Kew Gardens.’”

 

“Alright,” Stella acquiesces and runs through the spots she likes best, the places that bring her peace. “Sometimes I like to wander the south bank. Usually at night, it quiets my mind.”

 

“I can live with that. It’s beautiful there,” Reed accepts lifting the fourth shot to its rightful place in front of Stella. Then she eyes her a bit too long, eyes smirking, and angling forward. The fourth question sits on her lips, flickering there in the charged air between them. Stella begins to lose interest in whatever it might be, finds her attention drifting to Reed’s mouth instead, a much more promising reward waiting there. “What’s your favorite kind of lingerie?”  
  


“The kind that’s on the floor,” she fires moving her stare to Reed’s darkening eyes. And it’s the kind of answer that puts the power back in her court because she’s let Reed have it long enough, leather skirt and tequila shots and everything else. Stella wants it back, needs it back in order to feel herself again under the haze of hard liquor in her blood. And she likes the rush of making Reed squirm a little, how she’s doing now, flushed and mouth poised to say something, arrestingly unable to do so. Pleased, Stella takes her shot and puts it away, wipes at the moisture lingering on her lips. “Alright, last one. Make it good.”

 

Reed’s no fool, she knows Stella’s distracting her on purpose. So under Stella’s instruction, she rises to the occasion and makes it a good one. “Strangest place you’ve ever had sex?”

 

Stella’s first inclination is that her answer might be disappointing. Control is a decent part of her sexual makeup. She likes the freedom to set her own rules, doesn’t enjoy being limited by her environment. Of course there’s the exceptions, the thrill of semi-public spaces and she runs through her mental catalogue of what might constitute as the _strangest_.

 

She finally settles on, “Classroom,” and Reed looks immediately concerned or maybe it’s startled. “University, don’t worry.”

 

“With who?”  
  


“I believe I fulfilled the requirement of answering, which means it’s time for you,” she points at the shot glass.

 

“As an upcoming professor, I need to know how to keep kids from screwing on my desk. Your first hand account could prove very useful,” she says teasingly.

 

“I agreed to five questions and five questions only.” Reed looks at her as if she’s trying to decide whether to push her on it or not. It’s a risky sort of look, a bit flirtatious. Stella finds it charming and takes pity on her. This particular encounter isn’t something she keeps that close to the vest anyway. A fling.

 

“He was my literature professor. It happened a handful of times.”

 

“Your professor?” she asks even more shocked this go round. Seems she was expecting a stolen moment in an empty classroom with a boyfriend, or girlfriend, after a long day of studying. Something quick and reckless, and well maybe it was those things but it was also something else. “In his classroom?”  
  
“Not always.”  
  


“How old was he?”

 

“Old enough.”

 

“How old were you?”  
  


“Also old enough.”

 

“How long did it go on?”

 

“Drink that and I’ll tell you.”

 

Eager to hear, Reed brings the forgotten shot to her lips and tilts her head back, a black wave of hair sweeping heavily around her shoulders as she does so. It gives Stella a moment to appreciate the cinnamon slope of her neck as she swallows, a peek of purple from their night together revealing itself in a blaze of blue light. Everything about Reed evokes the dramatic imagery of slow motion, moonlit tides ebbing and flowing, pretty silks slipping over skin. Cinematic effigies coming to life before her at a water stained table in a shitty bar.

 

And then Reed rights herself, letting the black veil fall messily around her face. Shuddering discretely, she brings the lime to her lips and sets the glass down. Back to business. “Alright, how long?”

 

Stella scoots in a bit closer so that their knees knock clumsily against each other. Beckoning her forward with a siren’s gaze, Stella leans in to whisper the answer. Reed draws unassumingly near, takes the bait without a second thought before Stella slyly redirects course and aims for her mouth instead. Instinctively yielding, Reed meets her in a surprisingly open-mouthed kiss, an accidental greeting as if they’d just bumped into each other. _Funny running into you here_. And they stay like that for a moment until Stella moves her tongue to delicately capture Reed’s bottom lip. For a moment Stella thinks she’s stunned Reed into stillness, a bit like their first kiss, but then she’s there warm and buzzing. Blood thick with alcohol, Reed molds like hot steel under her touch, opening further and seeking a more intimate fit against Stella’s mouth. A matchstick at the mercy of her lips, suddenly willing to light, a simple strike. And with a rush of arousal, it makes Stella feel distinctly powerful to have such an immediate and desired effect on her.

 

In public.

 

After all, that was the goal, she won’t deny it. So she takes advantage by slowly sweeping her tongue in broad unrushed strokes along the inside of Reed’s mouth, enjoying the echo of lime in the small sounds she uncovers there. Maybe lime with tequila isn’t so bad after all. Mixed with the salted taste of Reed’s tongue, it tastes pretty fucking good.

 

Then Reed’s hand rises to Stella’s cheek and gently urges her closer, apparently unhindered by the fact that they’re in a crowded bar. And that’s fine because despite the music reverberating off the walls, the dreamy fire she finds in Reed’s kiss starts to make Stella forget the bar all together. It has her breathing in sparks and breathing out smoke, lost in the feel of discovering her this way, methodically, sand slipping through the hourglass as the seconds stretch blissfully around them.

 

Stella sometimes has moments like this with Reed, ephemeral moments that draw her out of herself and into something else. Intoxicating and short-lived. They scare the shit out of her. At least the liquor dulls the fear inching up her skin as she realizes it this time. But it’s still there, even as Reed writes letters of adoration with softness of her sighs, lingering in a way that makes Stella think she should be more careful. Because she’s coming off a hard case, her worst in some time and she can feel herself disappearing in this woman. Swept from the shore, the horizon shrinking at an alarming rate.

 

It’s enough to have her finally pull away, one lasting drag of her lips over Reed’s, lungs searching for air.

 

“Long enough,” she whispers, taking in Reed’s dazedly hooded eyes and the swell of her lips. Reed tilts her head, confused and clearly forgotten what they were talking about. Then Stella brings her hand to rest on her thigh with a gentle rub of affection, an apology for seducing her out of an answer, and returns to her drink.

 

Then she sees a man staring.

 

Clearly he'd been watching them, the heat of their moment reflected back at her in his eyes. Stella sips her drink and stares back unflinchingly, the sort of direct stare that makes most men run from the _don't fuck with me_ message it projects. Holding him there, she sizes him up - mid-thirties, relatively attractive and surrounded by a group of similar idiots trying to get his attention. A few of them look over in her direction and notice Reed before nudging their voyeuristic friend encouragingly. So fucking moronic.

 

“What's wrong?” Reed asks picking up on the shift in Stella’s stance and following her gaze to the inept man now walking towards them. “Do you know him?”

 

“No and I don't care to.”

 

“Seems he thinks otherwise.”

 

“Strange how that happens.”

 

“Good even ladies,” he says putting his glass down on their table and settling into their space, making himself comfortable, eyes trained on Stella. “I'm Adam.”

 

She won't deny that he's handsome, even more so up close, but he carries that air about him that speaks of someone not used to being denied. Decidedly unattractive. Presumptuous, clearly. Foolish.

 

“How nice for you,” Stella says instead, a little condescendingly. Actually, a lot condescendingly and she feels Reed shift a little next to her, amused or uncomfortable she can't tell.

 

“Do I get the pleasure of knowing your names?” He asks carrying on, undeterred by their apathy.

 

Stella turns to Reed now and finds suppressed laughter lining her lashes - amusement. And something else. Maybe it's just the remnants of their kiss but she looks ready to continue what Stella had started as if they hadn't been interrupted. Biting her bottom lip to tame the smile growing there, Reed’s eyes rake over the skin of Stella’s neck as if she wants to put her teeth there. That powerful feeling rushes back through Stella’s veins and goes straight to her core, filling her up and making her wish she could properly enjoy it without the company of this asshole, still standing there she realizes.

 

“No,” she replies without moving her eyes from Reed.

 

“I'm going to excuse myself for a minute,” Reed says quietly, eyes dragging themselves back up to Stella’s as she motions towards the back of the bar. “I'll be right back.” Her stare lingers on Stella as she turns to leave, knowing quite well she’s about to miss a show worth seeing. Something straight out of Planet Earth, surely, a predator left to mingle with its prey. If only Adam knew which side of that scenario he was bound to fall...

 

“Alone at last.”

 

Reluctantly prying her gaze from Reed’s retreating form, Stella turns back to their intruder, smug and leering, ready to continue one-on-one.

 

“I don't recall extending an invitation.”

 

“All that seemed like one to me,” he says, something dark in his expression igniting as he shifts closer to her, a hand moving forward. She retracts succinctly, a well practised move, and sits a little straighter evaluating her course of action should he try it again.

 

“Your mistake,” she tells him flatly, studying the confusion and subsequent determination articulate across his brow.

 

“Alright then let me make it up to you. Your next round is on me,” he offers, shifting tactics. He’s gone from wolfish to smooth-talker hastily and with ease, a soft mask of remorse cloaking his initial brazenness probably well enough for most. But not for Stella. It’s actually somewhat pathetic, she notices, how sure he is that this will work on her. So sure that his eyes fall to the dip of her blouse, working her over as if she won’t notice that either, as if he’s not under scrutiny, teetering on a fine line between nuisance and harassment.

 

“No thank you.”

 

And at that his gaze springs back up to her’s, seeing the unflattered boredom of a woman whose patience is running thin. Shaking his head a little with a puff of laughter meant to disguise his anger, he looks at her sternly. “Christ, you don't take a compliment well do you?”

 

“About as well as you take a hint,” she says sliding from her chair and removing her things from the table.

 

“What the fuck?”

 

“Do yourself a favor and kindly fuck off back to your friends.”

 

And then she’s gone. Walking back to the distant corner of the bar, Stella wades through the shadows leaving what’s-his-fuck in a collage of dancing lights, probably floundering in the wake of his failure. Hopefully he doesn’t follow her. She’d really rather not deal with his particular brand of bullshit for a second longer than she’s been forced to already.

 

Winding through the crowd to locate Reed so they can get the hell out of here, she feels the tequila hit her funny. Not bad funny but different. Maybe it’s all these fucking people, all of this loud music, she feels fuzzy around the edges, a little wobbly. But she can handle three fucking shots, she’s not an amateur. This damn bar’s too hot, that’s the problem. Jesus, she needs to find Reed, they need to leave. They can go somewhere else, she doesn't want to cheat Reed out of her first free night, but she doesn't want to go back to that table either. Maybe she could stand to linger if they hid in one of these darker corners. Somewhere she can let her lips and hands wander with less conspicuous eyes to witness. Or maybe now that they’ve had a few drinks, Reed will want to dance. And as soon as the thought crosses Stella's mind, all she can think about is having Reed draped against her, hips swaying under the rhythm of an otherwise obnoxious beat. Foreplay isn’t something Stella prides herself on but she certainly doesn’t hate the idea of tempting Reed on the dance floor before they leave. Definitely a possibility if only she could find her.

 

Ah, bathroom door, there it is.

 

Stella reaches for the handle and twists just as it begins to swing away from her. The sudden lack of stability has her stumbling forward but luckily not too much. Also luckily there’s Reed standing right in front of her, the culprit behind the opening door, looking pleasantly surprised to see her there.

 

“I was just coming find you. Is our new friend still alive?”

 

Something about the relaxed laughter in her voice and the way she hangs like a poster in the doorway floods Stella with restlessness. Adrenaline. Arousal. Annoyance that she's wanted to touch her since arriving and realizing that she hasn't fully done so. It pinches in her middle and has her heart rate jumping. And before Stella can make the conscious decision not to, her tequila-induced loss of impulse control takes over. She's pushing past Reed and over the threshold, tossing their things carelessly on the counter, one of the coats sliding over the edge.

 

“What’re you d-”

 

Reed doesn’t really get the rest of the question out as it drowns in a muffled gasp against Stella's mouth. And it's the second time she's caught her off guard tonight, just as satisfying as the first, maybe more. Stella burns into her, a searing bite to that bottom lip before immediately seeking entrance to her mouth. Thankfully Reed’s excellent at taking these unexpected meetings in stride. Quick to recover after the initial shock, she's responsive and pulling at the fabric of Stella’s trousers in a desperate attempt to get her closer, lips parting and giving over the access that she demands. So Stella boldly sweeps her tongue against Reed’s and starts walking her backward, thriving off the candor of the sounds they make. The gasps and the sighs and the thud of Reed’s back knocking into the door behind them. It’s all forceful, a little rough, and while Stella makes sure not to hurt her, she also makes no apologies for how badly she wants her.

 

Pushing Reed into the hard surface with the length of her body, Stella keeps her there as she moves a skilled hand up to the lock on the door, twisting it to the left without breaking their kiss. And with their newly ensured privacy, it quickly becomes necessary to use it. Stella moves her hands over the billowy material of Reed’s blouse, palms running over her ribs, moving up and cupping the weight of her breasts. It has Reed’s hips jerking in response, fingers pressed into Stella’s waist. So Stella takes a moment to situate herself between the set of Reed’s thighs, difficult in light of the leather but she creates enough contact to properly grind against her, leaving Reed breathless and resting her forehead against Stella’s on a gasp.

 

Moving her lips to the skin of Reed’s neck, she uses her teeth before soothing the angry spots with her tongue. And then Stella pulls the plunging neckline of Reed’s top to the side, playing with the decorative trim of her bra, feeling the intricate lacy pattern under the pad of her thumb. Then there's a distinctive “Stella” whispered somewhere near her ear and she wastes little time tugging the cup aside too. A firm swipe over Reed’s nipple turns that whisper into a whimper. And after one last kiss against her collarbone, Stella bends forward taking the erect flesh between her lips. That has Reed’s whimper turning into a moan.

 

One of Reed’s hands weaves through Stella’s hair, nails brushing her scalp and sending goosebumps along Stella’s arms as she focuses on circling Reed’s nipple. Stella bites gently at her and is rewarded with a bruised curse tumbling from Reed’s lips.

 

Then the door moves beneath them, a small movement halted by the lock and a bout of loud knocking ensues. Reed jumps a little and it definitely wakes them up to their surroundings. Bathroom bar, grimy and paint chipping off the walls. In the moment it was an incredible turn on but now suddenly less so, grumbling drunks yelling beyond a hunk of wood.

 

So Stella lets Reed’s nipple loose from the suction of her mouth, kisses the top of her breast softly and peppers a series of light kisses up her chest until she’s looking into her eyes. Reed’s smirking at her, aroused as hell but apparently not enough to resist poking fun.

 

“Christ, that prick gave you such a hard time you had to come snog me in the toilet?”

 

“Maybe he did. Maybe I just wanted to.”

 

“I appreciate the end result either way.”

 

Stella mirrors Reed’s flickering smile and takes a moment to appreciate the sight before her. Standing back a bit, Stella observes her hands running down Reed’s waist and over the curve of her hips, sliding against the fabric of the taunting skirt. It’s stretching and bunching over Reed’s legs, a bit amiss after the rush of seeking contact.

 

“This skirt, I swear,” Stella remarks, admiring it appropriately now that they’re completely alone, minus the next series of knocks on the door behind them.

 

“You like it?”

 

“I think you know the answer.”

 

“I’ll remember that.”

 

“I’d like it better off.”

 

“I guess we should leave then.”

 

“You sure?” Reed gives her a skeptical look, the kind that says _‘Did you seriously just say that?’_ Stella sighs, remiss to continue talking Reed into staying but she knows she’d regret it otherwise. “It’s your night out,” she explains, “You should properly enjoy it.”

 

“I’d like to properly enjoy it back home.”

 

“Is that so?”  
  
“Mm.”

 

“Alright then,” Stella says, letting her finger slip over the waistband of Reed’s skirt, tugging at it a little suggestively. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

They walk home.

 

Just a few blocks away from Reed’s flat, it seems silly not to, and walking off some of that tequila is probably a good idea too. So they walk, maybe a bit too fast, maybe a bit too eager, and Reed stumbles laughingly over a curb. Shaking her head in admonishment, Stella steadies Reed’s arm and then searches out her fingers, twining them together and tugging lightly.

 

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” Reed mumbles into her unoccupied hand, now pressed bashfully to her face.

 

“I know,” Stella assures her, a small stroke of her thumb over Reed’s knuckles.

 

“It’s this one up here,” Reed points to the flat two doors in front of them and Stella can feel the air hum as they draw nearer, the anticipation of a closed door and dark spaces rumbling between them. Stella feels it build steadily between her legs, walking up the pathway and it’s been there for hours, reticent and waiting. But her body knows that the wait is almost over and Stella feels that familiar tension make itself known. Combined with the alcohol, she’s brimming with a careless sort of energy that generally leads to both memorable and regretful evenings in equal measure. The kind of evenings where her body makes demands without her mind’s approval. And as they walk the few short steps to Reed’s flat, Stella reminds herself that this is all still very new for Reed. They’re both relatively intoxicated and it’s not the Stella doesn’t trust herself, she just doesn’t want to forget herself too much along the way.

 

Then they’re on the landing and Reed digs through her bag, rummaging around for the keys. Perhaps Stella’s just impatient because it feels like it’s taking an awfully long time. So she makes herself comfortable against the brick, watches Reed’s hair whip and flutter, muddling her vision as she searches. There’s something unspeakably attractive about the messy way Reed wears it tonight that provokes all sorts of images onto Stella’s imagination. Maybe that’s because the scattered tendrils remind Stella of the way Reed looked after coming around her fingers a few nights ago.

 

That thought does nothing to dilute the dangerous feeling growing inside her.

 

Suspended in the promise of that memory, Stella doesn’t realize she’s staring rather intently and Reed notices with a self deprecating grin. There's a quick “I’m sorry,” because it’s definitely taking a long time at this point and then seconds later, “Found them.” Dangling the keys from a loop on her index finger, Reed displays her success with a languid smile, all honey and terribly inviting. Stella tries not to think of kissing her until they’re inside.

 

But then Reed’s big brown eyes pause, heat recognizing heat, traversing the gun powder line of Stella’s brow down to the molten split of her lips. Before Stella can worry about keeping herself in check for a moment longer, Reed is on her, kiss scorching, mouth open and urgent. It’s a stark contrast to the cool air whisking past them as Reed’s warm tongue meets Stella’s at the center of the earth, a vibrant dance of radiant warmth. And metal apparently because Stella hears it, metal clanking - jingling as Reed struggles with the lock, refusing to tear herself away just yet. It seems drunken multitasking is less Reed’s forte than her’s, and Stella’s about to pull back, handle this herself lest they get arrested for public indecency, when the door finally pushes open with a miraculous creak.

 

Reed breaks their kiss, breathing out an accomplished puff of relief against Stella’s cheek, and pulls her inside. Everything is dark and Stella doesn’t get to see much of the interior, doesn’t so much as manage a glance around the shadowed flat before the door shuts and Reed’s against her again. Stella hears the distinctive thump of Reed’s purse hit the ground and moments later, a coat. It’s all she can do to notice these things in her periphery when she’s so consumed. Consumed in the satisfaction of Reed’s pliant mouth and perfect body at her fingertips. Consumed by the seemingly endless high that simply having her like this elicits. But then Reed’s peeling the jacket from her own body, pushing it fiercely to the floor.   

 

Well then.

 

Stella shouldn’t have worried so much about her own intoxicated impulses after all. Seems like someone has a rough streak, seems like they both do, and the realization makes Stella’s chest constrict. Anyone can tell you that surprising discoveries are the most exhilarating but it’s another thing entirely to be there at the moment of unveiling, to feel it rushing towards you. And Reed is like a tidal wave, all motion and strength with no end in sight, salt and tequila raging ashore. Like any flash flood, it strikes so fast that Stella barely finds time to acclimate and momentarily she struggles for air. Because truth be told, Stella knows a lot more about unleashing than she does about being unleashed _upon_ \- rarely ever does she allow herself to be unleashed upon. There’s a certain submission involved in it that Stella doesn’t adhere to when it comes to sex. Of course, there’s always advantages to acknowledging the right place, the right time for everything. Under the torrid drag of Reed’s teeth against her lips, Stella can feel each of those advantages fall into alignment along the pillar of her spine. And these are the startling pleasures of finding someone like Reed, someone she can trust to surprise her without taking it too far. No threat of a man who doesn’t know his strength, who doesn’t understand the difference between ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in the throes of a moment. So she makes the decision to indulge herself, lets herself have this, tries to ignore the way her body resists being told what to do as Reed walks her into the hallway.  

 

As Stella lets herself be led, Reed’s teeth move along her neck showing it the same brute attention as everything else and it sends the pressure between her legs into overdrive. It feels so good that Stella brings her hand to Reed’s head, pressing Reed’s bite it into her skin harder. And Reed’s all too happy to oblige, sinking her teeth into sensitive skin there, capillaries screaming. Then in sudden change of direction, Reed’s pinning Stella definitively to the wall.

 

Jesus, where the fuck had this come from?

 

A far cry from Reed’s shyness the other night, it’s throwing Stella off as much as it’s turning her on and her mind isn’t functioning fast enough to reconcile to the two. And then there's the gruff way Reed pulls on Stella’s blouse, untucking it from her trousers and forcing it up her torso. Concentrated, Reed breathes heavily, moves quickly and Stella might normally quiet the rush but not tonight. She lets it happen, lets Reed tear the flimsy fabric overhead and leave it in a forgotten mess on the hardwood. Thankfully it’s not an expensive item, she’ll live if it’s ruined. All she really cares about right now is getting her hips straddled around Reed’s thigh to relive some of the tension building in her clit. So Stella grabs Reed’s waist with the intention of pulling her closer, but it’s a dreadfully short lived venture. Each of Reed’s hands clasps haltingly around Stella’s wrists, bringing them from her waist to the wall, holding them there. Unexpectedly strong.

 

Stella feels her eyebrows instinctively jut into a challenging expression, somewhere between impressed and aroused. Who knew? Involuntarily her thighs press together, still seeking friction while Reed assesses her wickedly, covering Stella’s anchored body with her own. Stretching over her like a cat, Reed’s practically purring as she kisses her way along Stella’s jaw, hips rolling, hands pressing hands into drywall. All Stella can do is breathe, focus on breathing, focus on breathing instead of the maddening clench of her pelvic floor. It only worsens when Reed’s mouth moves to her ear, tonguing her earlobe, teeth grazing with just the right amount of pressure. She senses that same line of pleasure and pain playing between her shoulder blades as they dig into the wall under Reed’s swaying movements, pushing Stella against the hard surface.

 

And then she hears it, the phrase, the words that are surely destined to invade her fantasies until the end of time.

 

“I want to taste you.”

 

Stella’s never come from needy whispers alone but for a split second she wonders if she will now.

 

And she must have heard Reed wrong. Because it’s a jump, a big jump from last time. It has Stella wondering how serious she is, how much she’s simply caught up in the moment. But then again, it’s still Reed that has Stella pinned up against a wall in her sister’s flat, it’s still Reed that’s licking along the inner shell of Stella’s ear, still Reed painting in vivid colors over the canvas of her body.

 

Stella opts for a simple question.

 

“Is that so?”

 

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Reed says bringing her damp lips to Stella’s, barely kissing her, a teasing swipe of her tongue. Then she’s pulling back, looking at Stella for something - approval maybe.

 

It’s been so long since Stella’s experienced anything like this and how is she supposed to form any word beyond the realm of ‘fuck’? Because fuck. Serious fuck.

 

Reed’s eyes are as black and glittering as the night sky in moments of heightened arousal, shifting constellations and wandering satellites. Just as alluring, just as likely to attract the curiosity and awe of earth dwelling mortals. And how the fuck had Stella landed herself here, staring into galaxies and stars, the words “I want to taste you” floating towards her at a wavelength reserved for lusty daydreams.

 

She doesn't say that though. Just another question.

 

“What’re you waiting for?”

 

That’s all it takes. In seconds, Reed pulls Stella from the wall and moves her back towards the couch, kissing her and unbuttoning her trousers as they go. Then they're pushed over Stella’s hips, her calves bumping into what she assumes is a sofa, a soft “Sit down,” uttered against her lips. And Stella sits as Reed follows, kneeling and tugging her pants free from her ankles, casting them aside. Everything feels like it’s happening so fast as Reed’s nimble fingers crawl over the skin of Stella’s thighs, parting them enough to create room as Reed moves in closer, settling herself in the crux of Stella’s legs. Resisting the urge to grind into Reed’s stomach as she draws nearer, Stella feels her underwear snap under Reed’s toying hands.  

 

“These have to go too.”

 

Lifting her weight, Stella lets Reed strip them away and then her heart begins to race because it’s been so long since she’s let someone do this. And it's not that she doesn't enjoy it but it's simply not something she’s prone to allowing. For a multitude of reasons. All of which she currently pushes from her mind.

 

And men don’t question it, usually they don’t care.

 

But Reed cares, she cares so much and it’s one of the many things Stella finds attractive about her. So Stella will let this happen because she trusts Reed. And because she wants this. She doesn’t always but tonight, tonight she does. Stella really fucking wants Reed’s mouth, and she wants to come against her tongue.

 

“Tell me if there’s something you like,” Reed’s voice interrupts her frenzied thoughts as she leans Stella back into the cushion. And Stella tries to relax, tries to quell the sudden nervousness fluttering through her. Then the heat fades a little from Reed’s appraising stare. “I mean it. I want to know.”

 

Of course. Stella should have seen this coming, shouldn't be continually surprised by Reed’s requests for guidance. It's just that Stella’s better at show than tell, better at control than connect. But she reminds herself that based off of their last night together, Reed’s probably anxious too. And considerate, so considerate and eager to know what works. What Reed doesn't yet know is that she's worried for nothing and that women generally know what works better than men. Women know what women like and any woman who has ever done this to her has been been pretty fucking good at it. The whole thing is surprisingly intuitive and Reed has no idea just how capable she is.

 

“You know what you like, right?” Stella asks her a little breathlessly and Reed nods. “Do that.”

 

Reed smiles a small smile at the directive and kisses Stella softly, hands sweeping down, reaching around to unclasp Stella’s bra. It comes off easily enough before the structured cups are replaced by the smooth caress of Reed’s touch. And Stella grounds herself there, breathing into it, letting the weight of her breasts settle in Reed’s palms. Within moments her worries become distracted by the sparks of pleasure wafting through her under Reed’s ministrations, little tweaks and tugs as Reed’s tongue plays in sweet circles across her lips. Efficient with her time, Reed moves to Stella’s pulse and sternum, a few stolen seconds spent on her nipples. Mapping her journey with a fine balance of haste and adoration, Reed lingers just long enough to provoke a sigh here and a gasp there, a small frustrated shift of Stella’s hips. And Stella let's her eyes fall shut, feels a chaste kiss along her ribs that she tells herself not to think about. Far less innocent kisses follow scattered along the skin of her hip, the slope of her navel, and they're distraction enough. Then there's the long lick against her pubic bone, wet kisses sacrificed at the smooth altar of her apex, and any thoughts she'd wanted eradicated from the consecration of her mind evaporate instantly.

 

Reed adjusts herself to sit more comfortably between Stella’s legs, spreading them a little wider and Stella can feel a rush of cool air intimately greet her. Opening her eyes, Stella tries not to make such a show of her breathing but the sight of Reed positioned so perfectly below, pulling dark hair away from her face, eyes trained on Stella, makes it a difficult task. And then Reed seductively places a open-mouthed kiss at the crease of her inner thigh. How she’s going to survive this, Stella doesn’t know…

 

That’s more or less the last coherent thought Stella experiences before her mind goes blissfully blank, the overwhelming relief and ecstasy of Reed’s mouth against her erasing all vernacular thoughts from existence. Starting near her entrance, Reed takes leisurely soft strokes over Stella’s wetness, indulgent licks across her folds, exploring, tasting her. Apparently satisfied to finally be doing so, Reed hums a little and Stella can’t help but wish that it was happening over her clit, practically pulsing with need. But apparently Reed’s executing a strategy that involves taunting her, lapping and kissing Stella’s slick skin, carefully avoiding the particular place Stella wants her most. Perfectly infuriating. But then there’s Reed’s eyes, glowing and angled up at her just as she dips her tongue into Stella’s pooling arousal. And she gathers it there on her plush pink tongue before sweeping up and covering Stella’s clit completely.

 

After that nothing remains beyond the electric way her body responds to the things Reed’s doing to her, eyes slammed shut, vocalizing god knows what. And Reed responds accordingly, creating a transcendent sort of suction with her lips that makes Stella’s legs tremble under the pressure to stay open. Reed firms up her grip on Stella’s thighs, running her fingernails tantalizingly over the exerted muscle while her mouth moves. And it moves. It moves messily and exquisitely and Stella can’t help the way that she tilts her hips into Reed’s mouth, seeking more, wanting more when she practically has more than she can take. But her body’s operating on its own accord, evidence of the sounds she hears herself make, breathy moans and strained cries, and she bites down but it does nothing to keep things quiet.

 

Stella has the vague thought that she needs to get ahold of herself or maybe just ahold of something, literally anything. Her hands splay futilely against the sofa’s upholstery, which offers little to no purchase, clear coated fingers flexing uselessly. And the energy is building in her so fiercely and so steadily that she needs something to steady the ascent.

 

Intuitively, Reed adjusts the pressure of her tongue giving Stella a chance to breathe. She strokes the sides of her from top to bottom before wandering back to her clit and returning to their previously established rhythm - a really fucking good one. And as the liquid heat of Reed’s mouth envelops Stella’s hypersensitive skin once more, Stella definitively rasps a tortured and extended “Fuck” into the dewy air between them.

 

Not only that but she’s also suddenly got a fist-full of Reed’s inky hair scrunched beneath her fingers and shit, she hadn’t meant to do that. Because hair pulling is incredibly sexy at the right time and incredibly _not_ at the not-so-right time. And some people just don’t like it and some people just don’t ask, and it can be tricky to navigate. So Stella generally steers clear of it, out of respect for her partners and out of respect for herself, out of respect for the times when she didn’t know how to set boundaries.

 

As quickly as she can, Stella tries to disentangle her grip and that’s when Reed stops. Looking up briefly, a question in her eyes, Reed stops Stella’s retreating hand and brings it back into the mussed strands of her hair.

 

“That okay?” Stella asks on a shaky breath.

 

Reed smiles slyly with an altogether too-attractive “Uh huh.”

 

And then Stella’s pulled under the surface of her own cognizance once more, at the mercy of Reed’s lips, hot and wet, drawing Stella from the depths of her terrestrial limitations. With Reed’s mouth latched to her pussy she can see the explosive wonder of the milky way laid out before her, engulfing her as it unfolds in bright flashes and abrupt colors, surrounding her body in its mysterious beauty. The rush of discovery, uncharted territory vast and endless.

 

Then she feels one of Reed’s fingers easing into her tight heat and Stella’s head jerks down. And Reed’s assessing her reaction - the ever-flattering jaw-dropped, panting expression of someone who’s so close to coming that it’s almost inevitable. Reed moans into the mound of her sex, sloppily kissing, sucking, and Stella unabashedly uses the leverage of her hand to grind against her mouth. And fuck it’s perfect. Guiding Reed to all the right places, tense fingers and rolling hips, Stella’s soaring in seconds. She feels herself grip wildly around Reed’s hand as she succumbs to the relief oscillating through her taut muscles. Pulsing from her core, she feels the orgasm extend into her fingertips, rippling brilliance, fleeting and draining. Then it recedes and she has to lightly remove Reed’s jaw away from her drenched skin as she catches her breath.  

 

Holy shit.

 

She feels like she’s in a haze of distilled rapture, molecules and droplets of it hanging in the air. There’s a stupid smile hanging lazily across her face and she can feel it sitting there. Normally she might think to care but she doesn’t right now because that was so fucking great.

 

And then she looks down at Reed who’s sitting back on one arm and wiping away the remnants of Stella’s arousal from her lips, a satisfied look in her eye as she watches Stella come down from her orgasm.

 

“Proud, are you?” Stella asks, gaining back some of the energy into her exhausted body. She sits up a little, running her fingers through her hair, a thin sheen of sweat at the nape of her neck.

 

“Do you blame me?”

 

“Not in the least. Jesus christ…”

 

* * *

 

God, she feels sexy. Stella makes her feel that way and it’s intoxicating, Reed feels drunk off of it sometimes, especially now. Something about making Stella come, the traces of it smeared over her mouth, makes her feel powerful like she could do anything, be anything she wants. Sex and power. There’s a reason people are always after both.

 

Exhilarating.

 

This is exactly what she'd set out to accomplish and yes, she was proud. Because even though Reed had been nervous during their first night together, she’d resolved to fix that this second go round. Insecurities had been holding her back for too long, keeping her stagnant. And part of all this change, getting back to a truer version of herself, meant letting go of all that shit. She didn’t want to sit at home replaying events in her mind, wishing she’d done things differently. It was the whole fucking point of uprooting her life, that wasn’t the life she wanted. Reed was determined not to repeat mistakes if she could help it.

 

And that couldn’t stop at Stella.

 

Over the past few days, Reed hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, about their night wrapped in expensive sheets. And while it was a pleasant memory, Reed couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed. She’d been so unsure of herself, timid. Of course it’s understandable, nobody’s a pro their first time, nerves and all that. But there was so much more to her, things she’d buried, things that she told herself just weren’t meant for her in this lifetime. There was so much more that she wanted.

 

And there was also the matter of parity. At every stage in life, equality has always been important to Reed - in school, in work, in friendships, and intimacy. Being an equal partner during her time with Stella meant forgoing this timidness, instinct suggests that timid isn’t really Stella’s style. Truthfully it’s not Reed’s either but years of self-doubt can’t help but affect a person. And Reed wants to be capable of returning what she’s given.

 

So she made a real effort tonight, tried her best to be herself without the confines of imposing anxiety. She dressed how she wanted and she drank what she wanted and she made Stella moan how she wanted, and Reed can't help but feel empowered by her own accomplishment. Not to mention thrumming, she can almost feel the blood moving through her veins, acute and tingling.

 

It's an amazing thing to be so completely alive.

 

As she looks at Stella, breathless and beautiful before her, Reed is once again struck by how young Stella looks in these moments. Flushed and freckled, milky white skin settling like snow dust in the ethereal aftermath of an avalanche, Stella is a true force of nature when she comes, wondrous to witness in its unrestrained glory. And Reed thinks that she could simply watch Stella breathe and find it beautiful.

 

“You're stunning.”

 

And Reed knows Stella's uncomfortable with compliments, it’s evident in the way her shoulders tense and the way she sits a little straighter. But Reed feels compelled to tell her anyway, thinks Stella should know.

 

So she does.

 

And Stella doesn’t say anything, just stares at her. If Reed hadn't just seen her squirming and gasping, she might find it intimidating. There is something incredibly intense about Stella’s unfiltered gaze, especially when there’s nowhere else for it to land. And Reed wouldn’t take her words back but she briefly second guesses what’s appropriate to say to Stella in these post-coital breaths. Because as all traces of Stella’s afterglow evaporate into a haze of something else entirely, Reed worries that she may have royally fucked up.

 

“Stand up.”

 

Stella’s voice is soft but her tone is not, it’s authoritative and commanding. And Reed realizes that it’s not distress as much as determination, shifting pieces in a chess match, Stella’s simply taking back the control she’d gracefully relinquished.

 

So Reed does as she’s told and stands while the fierceness of Stella’s unbroken eye contact sends jolts of arousal through her center. Under Stella’s appraising gaze, a mixture of nerves and heat flood Reed’s system and she tells herself to focus on absorbing the warmth, on letting it fill her up and ignoring the rest.

 

“Take off your boots.”

 

God, Reed’s still fully clothed and barely noticed until now. Feeling a bit silly she unzips them and tosses them to the side under the palpitations of her racing heart. Bending at the waist, she also realizes how fucking wet she is because suddenly her underwear are clammy against her in the worst way. And she’d just as well take them off with the rest of her clothes but Stella’s demeanor says otherwise. Standing now, Stella walks towards her unabashedly nude, and Reed wonders how the hell a person can retain such stoic control over a situation in such an exposed state. Stella manages it effortlessly... Is she truly that sure of herself? Reed wonders this as Stella approaches her, blue eyes sliding over her body until they’re face to face, inches between them.

 

Then Reed’s thoughts are interrupted as the fabric of her blouse rustles against her skin. Stella’s quietly untucking it, gaze trained on Reed’s face. Met with such direct eye contact, Reed can’t help but wonder what Stella’s thinking, and the mysteries woven into the web of her irises create such a seemingly complex map that Reed finds difficult to follow. And then they’re gone from her purview as Stella lifts the shirt over her head in a swift motion, allowing the garment to flutter away.

 

Taking a small step back, Stella brings her hand to delicately finger the material of Reed’s skirt, a small genuine smirk forming. Amongst everything else, Reed likes this perhaps the most, the way Stella looks at her. Back in Belfast her gaze had been inquisitive, curious and analytical. Now, Stella looks at her like she’s a secret treasure, a hidden wonder of the world - something awe-inspiring and rare, untold stories written along the lengthy columns of her skin. It’s not always but every now and then, when they’re alone. And no one’s looked her this way in ages. Least of all her husband. But she pushes him from her mind because he doesn’t belong here in these private spaces, not anymore. Especially not when Stella’s bringing her body up against Reed’s, palms spreading over the curve of her ass.

 

“As much as I love this…” Stella says sliding the zipper of her skirt down slowly and placing a kiss to Reed’s bare shoulder. The skirt falls, like everything else, and then Stella’s mouth is hot and scraping against Reed’s lips. Graciously Reed’s jaw falls open, welcoming the invasion into her space. And the way Stella so fluently wields control is inspiring, almost as much as watching her come had been. Almost. Within seconds Reed feels like liquid under her touch, willing to surrender and sway whichever way Stella chooses, and if she weren’t so turned on by it, the lack of willpower she feels might be frightening.

 

Then Reed can feel herself being led backwards and christ, upstairs seems like a long way to go but at least Stella’s making the most of the journey. She maneuvers Reed’s bra away as they enter the hallway, then runs a hand over the dampness of Reed’s underwear. Gasping at the sensation, Reed stops their momentum and leans against the wall for support, bringing Stella with her. Heavy breaths and sliding hands, Reed feels her patience unravel as she moves herself against Stella’s palm. Strands of hair infringe upon on her view as she looks down at the muscles in Stella’s forearm, straining under their effort. Fingers pushing through the dark threads at her scalp, Reed sweeps them back just as Stella tears the small piece of lace down her legs.

 

Apparently Stella’s not concerned with getting upstairs. And maybe Reed shouldn’t be either because now Stella’s licking her neck and touching her properly, middle finger circling her entrance before taking a firm swipe over her clit. It sends an impossible amount of tension up her middle and Stella’s name fumbles from her lips in a mess of other noise.

 

“Turn around.”

 

Even amongst a tirade of thoughts and questions, Reed manages to comply, palms flat against the paint within seconds. Reed knows how this works with a man but somehow it seems like it might prove more challenging with a woman. She wouldn’t really know though, maybe it’s not. Or perhaps Stella just intends to tease her. A pitstop on their way up.

 

God she hopes not.

 

But then Reed feels Stella behind her, gathering the mass of Reed’s thick hair and draping it over the slope of her shoulder. At a shiver inducing pace, Stella presses her trimmed nails over the curve of Reed’s ribcage. Arriving at her breasts, Stella cups them and teases them while her mouth draws circles at the base of Reed’s neck. Her insides twist and coil in that dizzying way and Reed can practically feel herself coming undone. She can’t help but rock back into Stella’s hips, missing the sense of relief between her thighs. Stella simply taps the inside of Reed’s ankle with her foot, a request. So Reed spreads her legs a little wider, getting comfortable with the new stance, anticipation winding ruthlessly inside her.

 

And she is going to enjoy this, she can feel it as Stella’s hands venture lower, firmly caressing the smoothness of her stomach down to her tops of her thighs. Along the way, Stella rolls her body against Reed’s arching form and Reed can’t help but visualize the picture they make. It sends her spinning and she can’t reason how any of this is actually happening to her. But then Stella’s fingers are between her legs, moving the embarrassing amount of wetness there over her sensitive skin. Reed feels her knees buckle under the sensation and fuck this isn’t going to be easy. She instinctively grinds her ass against Stella and presses the flats of her palms into the wall, holding herself up. After a few quick passes of her fingers, Stella’s inside her and if Reed thought she’d felt full before, she’d been indescribably wrong.

 

Reed’s head falls forward as a small cry falls from her open lips, resting against the wall on shaking legs as Stella’s hand pumps into her. And thank fucking god for this wall. It’s the only thing keeping her upright. Stella uses her unoccupied hand to hold Reed’s hips against her pelvis and Reed couldn’t be more grateful because the longer this goes on, the harder it is to stand. With every brush of Stella’s fingers along her, she can feel herself getting tighter. Stella’s palm presses perfectly into her clit and every now and then, her fingers escape, wet and warm to pay it extra attention. For a moment Reed can’t believe she doubted whether or not this would work because everything about this is sending her climbing. And she can feel herself flirting with the edge but every time she feels it close, her body trembles under the weight of itself. And Stella is relentless - she supports Reed as much as she can but gives her no breaks, no room to breathe. Reed’s not sure she could stop her hips from moving if she tried, and it’s so much that her face ends up flat against the wall as she works herself nearer and nearer to that elusive summit.

 

And then Stella moves her feet, pushing at the insides of Reed’s ankles, spreading her legs inherently further apart without much choice. A quick bite to her neck and fuck, that’ll do it. Within a few short seconds, Reed feels her muscles clench everywhere, there’s no way she’s staying vertical. But Stella’s a rock behind her, letting Reed ride out the pulsing sensations that rip through her abdomen. God, the vice like grip Reed has on Stella’s hand is unreal. As she starts to come down, Reed’s not sure she can move. But then Stella moves her fingers gingerly from Reed’s fluttering core and it’s a mild relief.

 

Deep breaths in and out, Reed finally feels herself begin to recover. Turning around, she keeps her shoulders pressed into the wall behind her, still unsure of how much she trusts her body. And Stella’s far less domineering as she studies Reed’s sated expression. Reed notices that she’s almost smiling and Reed can’t help but return the gesture. Once her chest stops heaving quite so loudly, Reed pulls Stella’s mouth lazily against her lips in a sweet kiss. A thank you, a greeting, an expression of affirmation.

 

Pulling away to breathe, Reed can hardly believe what they must look like, naked and panting in the hallway of her sister’s flat. What on earth has her life become?

 

“Wow,” Reed says, a mischievous note in her voice accompanied by Stella’s perfectly lifted brow in return. “We haven’t even made it upstairs yet.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to @TheRobbinsGang, @JenSchwartz21, and @SpookyHadley! And thank you for your patience.

The muscles in Reed’s legs are tired, overexerted and tinged with sweet soreness, the kind that begs to be stretched. She arches her back, lengthening her body, feeling the pleasant tension dissipate into the sun warmed room.

 

It’s 10:30am and they've accidentally slept in, lethargic after staying up so late. Upon seeing the time, Reed’s first instinct had been to worry, she’s used to having responsibilities after all. The padding of little feet or the impending wail of an argument usually lurking imminently behind the shelter of her closed eyelids. But not this morning. This morning she can linger in the fluffy comfort of her bed without the niggling fear that someone small needs her attention. In some ways it feels like she’s missing a limb. Another stretch proves she’s not, all limbs accounted for, and then she fights the guilty feeling that tells her to feel selfish for having this. It’s a habit she’s trying to break. Beating herself up for needing certain things - anything - for herself. The cycle of self-incrimination, bearing burdens and wearing guilt, it’s all part of this self-inflicted wound she’s been trying to clean. She’d convinced herself that it was ‘nothing’ for too long, put a bandaid on it, expected it to heal on its own. And she’s a doctor. She should have known better. 

 

So she resolves to let go of that guilt for now, she tells herself there’s no other choice. It's part of the treatment she’s prescribed herself. Sometimes it feels counterintuitive but she knows that it’s the right thing. The medicine is harsh but the alternative infection had grown unbearable. And she tells herself this for the hundredth time this week alone, her own silent mantra.

 

Then she chances a glance toward the space next to her, the one Stella occupies dozing in and out of sleep. All at once, a second wave of worry breaks over her barely conscious mind. Because it’s late and Stella probably has things she needs to do. What if she’s been waiting for Reed to wake up? Too polite to leave inconspicuously? Trying futilely to wait for her get up like an active adult should, even on the weekends. It’s not like they know each other’s schedules or routines but 10:30am seems alarmingly late. 

 

Before her anxiety snowballs into an avalanche, Reed halts her thoughts and takes a deep breath. Examine the situation.

 

Everything appears fine. In fact, almost better than fine.

 

Stella’s awake but not by much. There's no rush in the drowsy blink of her eyes and it’s a relief but also remarkably strange. For some reason, Reed imagines that lazy Saturday mornings are totally out of the realm of possibility for Stella. But the evidence in front of her speaks for itself. Stella makes no pressing effort to remove herself from their sleep-disheveled nest, no energetic toss of the sheets or swift gathering of clothing. There’s even a sleepy smile as she sees Reed notice her. Reed reflects the gesture back because it’s almost impossible not to, and then lets her eyes drift closed. There’s probably some fear lingering in the shadows of her lashes, fear that doesn’t need to be there, fear that Stella doesn’t need to see.

 

Looking up at the ceiling, Reed sees alternative scenarios play out before her. More likely scenarios. How this morning might have been riddled with excuses, all of them wrapped up in vague assurances, shifting eyes, and tight non-smiles. Cracks lining the thick frozen surface of Stella’s glacier stare, trying and failing to mask the acutely obvious logic swimming there.

 

_ Don’t let it mean so much. It was always going to be like this.  _

 

Stella would never say it but it would be there all the same. And she would keep things unemotional and clean. A fact of life like any other, something to accept and put behind you. Promises to see each other soon,  _ Keep me posted on how the job goes _ , when they both know it’s the last time they’ll speak, at least for a while. Reed sees it so plainly as if it’s already happened. It’s almost painful how undeniable the likelihood of a rejection from Stella Gibson seems to her now. How clearly it manifests itself on the blurry ceiling. 

 

“What're you thinking about?” comes Stella’s hearthside voice, rough and balmy from the morning hour. Reed vanquishes the assaulting vision, lets it waft away like smoke, curling upward into nothingness. That’s all it is. Nothingness.

 

Letting her head tilt towards Stella, Reed’s met with the same icy blue eyes, less cold than her imagination paints them. They're inquisitive and more awake than a few moments ago, beaming into her, asking questions. Stella lays on her side, rumpled sheet tucked under her arm, hair a bit of mess splayed over the pillow. Somehow she still manages to look glorious. Reed wonders if she’s simply made different, stitched together with some celestial thread, elegance sewn into her bones.  _ Stella for star _ . 

 

“Nothing,” Reed answers untruthfully and it sounds small even to her own ears.

 

There are some things that you just don't say to people. And Reed’s learning that there are even more things that you just don’t say to Stella. Being honest right now would require violating one or both of those things.  _ I’m just wondering why you’re still here  _ is decidedly not the thing to say. So  _ nothing _ is.

 

But Stella is perceptive, it's one of the things that makes her good at her job, so of course she sees the lie. The smoky film hanging in the air, residue left behind by unwelcome thoughts, she sees it all. And Reed tries to give her a smile but it doesn't work. It so sadly doesn't work and the probing nature of Stella's gaze freezes over a bit more, solidifying.

 

Reed doesn’t want to lie but the truth seems useless and needy, thoughts she’d like to un-think. And she needs to distract herself or she’ll shatter under the intensity of Stella’s steely stare. This is so foolish of her because she’s woken up to a beautiful woman who’s still very firmly in her bed. The same woman who gave her three distinctly memorable orgasms last night and it’s ridiculous because Reed didn’t even know she could come three times in one night. Now she’s forcing a scenario upon herself that hasn’t happened, making it a mountain in her mind instead of enjoying the peace of simply being here. What a shame, ‘here’ is pretty fucking great and she’s wasting it.

 

A heavy sigh, closing eyelids. Let it go.

 

“I was thinking…” she starts before opening her eyes anew, “How nice it is to sleep in. Nowhere to be and no lovely children demanding breakfast.” 

 

“Mm,” Stella hums in response, eyes softening a little in attempt to accept Reed’s deflection into lighter territory. Her hand finds Reed’s lying between them and Stella runs the soft pads over her fingers over Reed’s, studying their structure, thin but strong, skilled and slender. “Breakfast doesn't sound so bad.”

 

Stella’s delicate fingertips continue playing, lacing up and down, and it feels incredibly cathartic. Here and there, her trim nails brush lightly over Reed’s hands, sending chill bumps up her spine, across her shoulders and down her arms. Just like that, Reed senses her worries receding, slipping away into the murky depths from which they came. Every tender stroke, the sensory pleasure of skin on skin, relaxing.

 

Is it intentional? That perceptive nature of Stella’s, purposefully calming her contemptuous mind? Laying her fears to rest, telling her she has nothing to worry about. Because Stella’s touching her soothingly, and apparently she wants breakfast, she wants to stay. Maybe Reed just hasn’t woken up yet, caught in that in-between, not ready to encounter reality.

 

“It doesn't sound bad at all.”

 

Stella hums again looking at Reed with bright eyes, a gossamer smile whispered across her lips. Reed can see her intentions woven in the seductive fabric of her irises. And then her fingers abandon Reed’s as she slips her arm over the dip of Reed’s waist.

 

“In fact,” comes her low voice. “I’m rather hungry.”

 

Leaning in, Stella kisses Reed’s throat sending her fraught mind tumbling down an entirely different path. Shifting her weight, Stella positions herself over Reed for better access and the sheet slides unceremoniously down Stella’s back. A few strands of blonde hair tickle against Reed’s neck before Stella tucks them safely behind her ear, eyes catching Reed’s as she does so. And in the brief spell of connection there, Reed can see Stella evaluating her, gauging her mindset and whether or not this is working, if distraction was the appropriate tactic here. Reed’s not entirely sure if it’s the right thing to do but it feels good. When Stella’s mouth is on her she feels so good. Everything else filters into white noise.

 

Apparently satisfied, Stella dips down to kiss her clavicle, soft and then not so soft. Reed lets her fingers glide through Stella’s hair with that same feathery touch she’d just enjoyed so much. And it must be welcome because Stella makes a small noise - not quite a moan, not quite a hum - something like an unconscious sigh in the back of her throat that translates into a gentle nip of her teeth. Immediately, Reed feels herself flush as her heart begins to race and Stella tempers the bite with her tongue.

 

Moving a bit lower, Stella traces wet kisses down the valley of Reed’s breasts. And then she stops at the cue of an interrupting growl, the rumbling of a stomach gone too long without food. And Stella lifts her head to look at Reed, a genuinely amused expression lining her lips.

 

“Was that you or me?”

 

“I don’t know,” Reed laughs a little and Stella’s head collapses downward in mild defeat. God forbid uninteresting requisites like ‘three meals a day’ get in the way of the finer things in life.  “Maybe we should get some proper food in us before this goes any further.”

 

“Might be wise,” Stella says, placing a single lingering kiss to Reed’s breast bone before pulling herself up into a sitting position. She glances around as Reed extracts herself from the bedding. “Seems like most of my clothes never made it upstairs.” Reed tries not to grin at the memory.

 

“I’ll find you something,” she says walking toward the dresser. “Options are limited though. I got rid of a bunch of things during the move.”

 

“Anything’s fine,” Stella says getting up and heading towards the bathroom. “Just leave something out and I’ll be right down.” With that she disappears behind the door as Reed sifts through her pajama drawer. Not much to choose from. None of it looks remotely like something Stella might wear. So she throws on a tank top and pair of loose cotton shorts, and leaves out a few things for Stella on the bed before heading downstairs.

 

On her journey, she's met with several pieces of stray clothing. Even though there's no one home to care, no one here to witness the aftermath of the scene they've made, Reed can't help the furious blush that spreads like wildfire over her cheeks. An instinctive hand drifts to her face, a vain attempt to cover it. Jesus Christ, it looks like a hurricane ripped through the hallway.

 

Perhaps one had. 

 

She puts a few things right, hangs her coat, stores her purse away. Then her stomach makes itself known again and damn, she’s starving, probably should've eaten more last night. The clothes will have to wait.

 

Reed busies herself in the kitchen, putting on coffee and scouring the fridge for adult appropriate sustenance, anything beyond cartoonish cereal or yogurt tubes. Luckily, Reed eats like she's taken a nutrition class or two, so they've at least got some eggs and fruit in the house, some multigrain toast that'll have to do. As she pulls everything out to prep, setting it on the counter, she hears the telltale padding of footsteps. 

 

“Looks like we properly enjoyed ourselves last night,” Stella says rounding the corner, probably taking in the wreck of strewn clothing all over the floor.

 

And the coffee’s just finished up so Reed removes the pot and grabs a mug. She’s about to say something about the mess they’ve made when she looks up and stops abruptly, thankfully not spilling mid-pour like an idiot. Because she's almost 100 percent sure that she looks like an idiot right now, gaping at Stella, coffee pot in hand, unable to produce a coherent thought.

 

“What?” Stella says noticing her stare, a hint of concern edging her voice.

 

Reed realizes what she's doing and snaps back to pouring coffee, a self conscious smile masking her embarrassment. “Nice outfit.”

 

“You left it out,” Stella responds.

 

Truthfully, it's nothing more than an oversized t-shirt that Reed's never looked at twice. It's actually her husband’s from college and she'd only kept it because it's absurdly comfortable. Comfortable and soft perhaps, but not sexy - she would never use the word sexy to describe it. And yet Stella still manages to wear the shit out of the old tattered thing. It hangs from her lean frame, practically drowning her, and somehow it looks like the best thing Reed owns.

 

What the ever living fuck.

 

“I know - uh…” Reed says handing Stella the steaming mug that's taken far too long to make its way into her hands. “It just doesn't look like that on me. Or anyone, frankly.”

 

Stella accepts it with a knowing smile and a gentle, “Hush.” Then she props herself against the counter next to Reed, mug cradled to her chest, long t-shirt barely covering the tops of her thighs, and peering at the assortment of food. 

 

“Scrambled okay?”

 

“It’s fine. Can I do anything?”

 

“Um, there’s bread for toast if you want it,” Reed suggests nodding toward the loaf sitting next to the fruit.

 

The next ten minutes pass in some domestic alternate reality, Stella sipping coffee in that fucking t-shirt while Reed hovers over the stove and plates their meal. It strikes Reed as strange, moving through this ritual with someone not her husband. Butterflies and blatant ogling had long since left their morning routine and she finds it so odd to have that back with anyone, let alone Stella. And it’s not that Stella’s drastically different in this environment, milling about her kitchen in morning-after wear. If anything she’s exactly the same, ethereal yet incredibly human, and Reed envies the cool ease in which she seems to navigate her surroundings.

 

For no particular reason, they eat standing at the counter. Caught up in conversation, it just happens, an organic decision that lends itself to that ‘thing’ between them. She’s had it with few people in her lifetime so it’s hard to identify. Something like a natural intimacy. It was there from that first crime scene and has followed them to autopsy bays, trashy bars and now kitchen counters. Always present even during these mundane but necessary hiccups like breakfast. Nothing has changed. And yet for Reed everything has changed. 

 

When she’s with Stella, they seem to vibrate in the same corners of the world and everything feels the same.

 

They finish eating and there’s a bit of cleanup but it’s not too bad. Reed rinses the dishes and then leaves the rest of it in the sink, reasoning that she’ll get to it later. No use wasting time on it now. Not when Stella’s back to leaning against the counter and looking at her like she's got a secret, and that secret is all the ways to make Reed weak. 

 

And it's not fair because Reed’s confused, she doesn't know how the rest of this is supposed to play out. She still can't pinpoint why Stella’s not racing out the door. Even cordially, even with every intention of seeing her again. And Reed can't help it but something inside of her, call it intuition, is telling her that something is amiss. 

 

Not only that, but Stella had spoken of some shopping she'd been putting off and fully implied that they could make a day of it together. A day wandering about London with Stella Gibson. Shopping. It sounds like the sort of thing she might see in a foreign film and never experience in real life. And sure, it's not that big of a deal. But their rapport had been built on fighting monsters in the dark, not sleeping in and breakfast and shopping. This side of Stella feels almost more intimate than sleeping with her, a glimpse behind the veil. And maybe Stella’s simply not as distant in relationships as Reed might have anticipated. Not that they're in a relationship, no she can't think like that, not when she has no idea what this is. Fuck.

 

Perhaps Reed’s just too self deprecating, too eager to believe that her presence alone couldn’t hold Stella’s interest. 

 

Either way, she can’t shake the looming feeling that something’s not right.

 

But then Stella’s lightly tugging at the loose fabric of Reed’s shorts, vying for her attention with a rather alluring glint of blue. So Reed drifts in front of Stella, yielding to the unspoken request, hands floating to the sides of Stella’s t-shirt. She tries not to smirk as Stella continues toying with the hem of her shorts. And Reed admires the curve of Stella’s silhouette beneath the thin cotton, brushing her thumbs in long strokes over Stella’s ribs until there’s a slight wince.

 

“Sorry,” Reed says, a little startled because somehow she’d forgotten about the harsh blues and purples that marred her porcelain skin. It was dark last night but Reed remembers seeing it, remembers trying to assess the healing without being noticed, remembers trying to convince herself that there’d be a time to talk about it. Spector. Everything he’d done.

 

Before they’d first met for dinner, Reed had spoken with Rose and heard about the awful way Spector’s case unfolded. Amidst the chaos of moving to London, she’d felt incredibly guilty for her absence. But it was nothing compared to the guilt she felt upon seeing Stella’s injuries, nothing compared to reading about it the next day after a quick google search.  _ Accused Strangler Attacks Two Officers. _ There hadn’t been many conclusive details, just that Stella and Tom Anderson had sustained non-life-threatening injuries during the attack and were being treated at Royal Victoria Hospital.

 

With so little to go on, the possibilities running through Reed’s mind remain endless. How far down the drain had things gone after she left? What if something truly horrible had happened? But Reed tries to remind herself that she’s seen Stella’s body. Bruising aside, she seems fine. Physically fine, anyway. No reason to continue jumping to conclusions, no reason to push.

 

Maybe it’s selfish but Reed still wants to ask her about it. Wants the reassurance that nothing had been broken beyond repair.

 

“It’s fine,” Stella says. “Think we just got a little carried away last night.”

 

“Shit,” Reed whispers. Her eyes clamp shut, immediately remembering how rough she’d been with Stella when they’d come back. Could she have really been so stupid? Completely lost her mind at the idea of getting Stella undressed? “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about it.”

 

“Don’t be.” Reed opens her eyes glancing up at Stella, unsure whether or not to believe her. “I liked it.” 

 

And then Stella’s giving her that look, the one that makes her pulse race and sends heat tearing through her core. It’s pathetic how quickly she melts under this particular look, how quickly she loses herself to its pull. Maybe that’s why she’d acted so careless last night. And it’s no excuse but Reed’s willing to cut herself a break because Stella’s moving towards her, which means most of her thoughts will be useless in a matter of seconds anyway.

 

For the second time this morning, Reed allows Stella to distract her from restless thoughts with a coaxing brush of her lips. In Stella’s defense, Reed is easily swayed, too easily swayed and more than willing to be lost to the nuances of this particular distraction. Her hair for instance, and the way the unruly blonde strands tousle away from more orderly curls. It’s so different than the short tufts of brown hair that she’s grown accustomed to. And her smell, Reed’s not sure that Stella even wears perfume but something about the smell of her is so distinctly feminine in a way that’s different from her own. Fascinating. Enticing. Then there’s the strength in Stella, the force of her touch that’s not always rough but definitely confident and definitely there in the press of her body, the swipe of her tongue. Even now as Stella pulls her closer, hands on Reed’s hips and sneaking up the hem of her tank top.

 

Afraid to hurt her, Reed doesn’t exactly return the force of Stella’s touch. She keeps her hands at Stella’s face and her neck, gentle caresses. It’s definitely a contrast to heat of Stella’s mouth working against her own and the pressure of Stella’s hips pressed invitingly against her. And Reed can feel Stella pushing her, asking for more. So Reed skims her hands down to Stella’s breasts, palming them lightly and Reed can feel her sigh into their kiss, relief and frustration. Stella rolls herself against Reed with intent, pushing herself into Reed’s hands before dragging her teeth adamantly against Reed’s lip.

 

Then Stella’s breaking their kiss, pressing her hand to Reed’s against her chest and saying, “You’re not going to break me, you know.”

 

“I just don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“You won’t,” she assures, still breathing heavily. After that wince earlier, Reed’s not quite buying it. “I’ll tell you.”

 

“You didn’t last night.”

 

“Sometimes a little pain isn’t the worst thing.”

 

As much as Reed hates to admit it, Stella has a point and hearing her say it is a turn on. But the fact of the matter is that Stella’s still injured and needs to heal. The doctor in her knows how painful bruised ribs can be and the more Reed thinks about it, the more angry she gets with Spector, the more angry she gets with herself. It’s a slippery slope into the dredges of overwhelming concern and distress over the fact that she still doesn’t know the whole story.

 

But Stella’s looking at her like she’s a lifeline, a mixture of arousal and something a little desperate that Reed immediately hates. For a brief moment she thinks she might understand what’s off, what’s bothering Stella. Spector. Maybe she’s projecting and maybe Stella’s fine but for a split second, Reed swears that she just  _ knows _ . But then it’s gone and Stella’s tugging at her seductively, reeling her back in and Reed wonders if she’s imagined the entire thing. And if she could bring Spector back and administer bodily harm, she would, that’s how much she hates whatever the fuck was in Stella’s eyes. Because Stella’s the embodiment of confidence and Reed loves that about her, aspires to find it in herself. Nothing, especially not that asshole, should be able to interfere with that. 

 

“Sit,” Reed says simply, falling back into the moment as she steps back a bit. And Stella’s brow furrows momentarily so Reed nods to the counter behind Stella and repeats, “Sit.”

 

Eyeing her with a combination of curiosity and anticipation, Stella reaches behind her and sits easily on the smooth surface. It makes her taller than Reed but not by much and Reed thinks that might actually make this perfect. And then Reed wishes she could stop time. Just for a few seconds so that she might find a way to capture this moment, preserve it and keep it somewhere secret, tucked away and safe. Because the image Stella presents so demurely on the counter, bed hair and bare faced, it’s somewhere along the lines of fantasy and reality, converged and distilled into absolute arrest. A beautiful snapshot of life that Reed would like to always remember. And so fucking sexy. This t-shirt is really doing it for her. 

 

Memory secured, Reed steps forward into the crux of Stella’s legs and greets her with a searing kiss and a firm grip to her thighs. If Stella wants a little abandon, Reed will attempt to give it to her without threatening her wounds. And Stella shows her appreciation, pulling at Reed’s jaw and assaulting her mouth as Reed runs her hands farther up Stella’s legs. Then Reed’s fingertips make it all the way to Stella’s ass without encountering anything, nothing, no underwear. Good. Convenient.

 

Smiling into their kiss, Reed pulls back to arrange Stella’s hips closer to the edge of the counter, tugging the hem her new favorite garment out of the way. Stella spreads her legs wider and breathes into Reed’s hairline, hands roaming over her shoulders, palming her through the flimsy material of her tank top.

 

And then Reed’s mouth is at Stella’s pulse, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin there as her fingers find the slick warmth of Stella’s folds. There’s really no point in teasing her, not when all Reed wants to do is absolve her of these recent weeks. Reed takes a breath, a moment to draw on her own sense of determination. She’s getting less nervous and more confident, she knows that she can give Stella what she wants but it still takes a minor personal pep talk.

 

A few swipes over her wet clit leaves Stella a flurried mess, panting in Reed’s ear and yeah, she’s feeling pretty confident. Stella’s fingers splay and pull Reed closer, warm breaths of gratitude pressed along her hairline. It makes Reed think that this might not last long because Stella’s humming, eager and ready for anything she’s willing to offer. So Reed easily pushes two fingers inside of her and it’s like velvet heat. Having touched herself, she knows she should expect it but Stella is just so incredibly soft, so soft and warm that Reed can hardly comprehend it. This angle makes it surprisingly easy to adjust her speed and pressure and Reed uses the leverage of her body to anchor her hand. God, it's incredibly erotic fucking her like this. She could get used to the idea of finding all the ways to make Stella unravel.

 

Then she feels Stella freeze before she hears it.

 

The distinct call of “mum!” Creaking door. Soft thud. Shuffling feet. 

 

Heart pounding, instinct kicks in and she pulls her fingers from the slickness of Stella’s heat, stepping back just in time for Stella to lock her legs shut as Charlotte rounds the corner, followed by Jane. 

 

“There you are!” Charlotte says beaming and then very quickly shifting focus to Stella. “Who’re you?”

 

Reed feels most of her organs plummet through the floor as she glances toward Stella. Much to Stella’s credit, she tries to smile and looks relatively unshaken if not suitably fucked, lips swollen and knees shut together. 

 

“What on earth are you two doing here?” Reed asks with a vain attempt to keep her voice light and neutral. And her fingers are sticky with Stella’s arousal so she wipes them quickly on the cotton shorts, tugging them down and trying not appear alarmed. Reaching for her youngest, she tells herself to act natural as Stella slides off the counter to stand beside her.

 

“Dad needed to drop us off early,” Jane says, eyeing Stella warily as Charlotte latches onto Reed’s leg in a hug.

 

“Very early, huh?”

 

Heavier footsteps follow. 

 

“I tried calling-” Daniel says rounding the corner before halting abruptly. His eyes zero in on Stella, on her state of undress. He looks back to Reed then back to Stella. A table tennis match of emotions plays out across his face as he takes in his surroundings. It might be comical, the stunned look, the entire situation at large, if she wasn’t so absolutely fucking mortified. What kind of sick reality-

 

“Are you mad?” Charlotte asks worriedly, looking up at the grimace on her face.

 

“No, baby, I’m not mad,” Reed says giving her a reassuring squeeze.

 

God, this is a nightmare. She needs the girls out of here, she needs Stella out of here, she needs to know why the hell Dan’s dropping them off a day early. He's barely had them for 12 fucking hours. And she redacts her first answer because yes, she's very mad. But she needs everyone upstairs and out of earshot before she can decide exactly how mad.

 

“Listen,” Reed says, bending down to Charlotte’s level. “This is my friend, Stella,” she explains in her best ‘mom promises there's nothing wrong’ voice. And christ, Stella’s never going to speak to her again. “Why don’t you take you her upstairs and show her your new doll?” 

 

“What were you guys doing?” Jane asks looking around and shit, suddenly it feels like there's underwear scattered literally fucking everywhere.

 

“Jane, take Charlotte and Stella and go upstairs.”

 

“But-”

 

“Now.”

 

There’s a moment where Jane decides how defiant she’d like to be, how far to push her limits.

 

“Fine,” she huffs, walking from the kitchen as Charlotte trails behind her, eyes big with worry.

 

Reed sends her the most genuine smile she can muster. “I'll be up in a few minutes,” she says and then a whispered, “I’m so sorry,” to Stella who tiptoes around to follow the girls. And she just shakes her head with an empathetic tilt,  _ Don’t worry about it _ .

 

Don’t worry about it, what a joke. 

 

Once everyone’s down the hall, Reed turns her attention back towards Dan. His face is currently redder than a cherry tomato, acrimony and distress carving a harsh line in his brow. She hears the girls tread up the stairs and waits a beat to make sure she won’t be heard. And once they're fully out of earshot, she braces herself, says a prayer that she doesn't start crying out of anger or embarrassment. It could go either way at this point.

 

“Let’s start with: when exactly did you try calling?” Reed asks, trying to keep her voice level.

 

“I tried your cell 30 minutes ago! And I texted you.”

 

“What about Lydia’s landline?”

 

“Tanya, I don’t have time to call every number in the book when there’s an emergency,” he says spitefully and fuck him, yes he does. If she doesn't answer the phone, he sure as hell better call every number in the goddamn book before attempting to leave their children anywhere.

 

“What if I hadn’t been here? What would you have done? Just dropped them here?” 

 

“I would’ve figured it out.”

 

“Sure you would have,” because that's his answer for everything. Something empty and pointless that sounds decent after the fact.  “What kind of emergency could be so important that-”

 

“It’s a client emergency.”

 

“Sounds familiar.” 

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Dan, you can’t ask to take them for the weekend and then change your mind. I need to be able to count on you when you say you’re going to take them.”

 

“It’s an emergency!”

 

“It’s not an emergency,” Reed admonishes. If she could count the number of times he's missed something for a client emergency. There can only be so many emergencies before it comes down to a matter of priorities, plain and simple. “‘Someone’s in the hospital’ is an emergency. This is just typical.”

 

Even as she says it, she knows it sounds bitter, she can hear it in her voice. But truthfully, she doesn't care. She's given him leeway and she's given him chances, partly because she feels so terminally at fault for being the one to split up their family. His guilt trips work on her and she wishes they didn't. So most days she bites her tongue and tries not to argue with him. But not today because he fucked up his first time taking the girls this badly. Like ‘letting them walk in on her fucking someone’ badly. 

 

“Forgive me,” he starts out condescendingly and oh boy, this should be good. “Forgive me if I don’t have patience for a lecture from you of all people. You clearly don’t give a fuck about me or this family anymore.”

 

“Excuse me?!” Dammit she's yelling. He's getting to her and she's losing her temper. This can't happen, she's stronger than that. 

 

“Is this the real reason we’re all moving? Why I’m looking for a new job? So you can live out some lesbian fantasy while the rest of us wait around for you to get it out of your system?”

 

First, she gapes at him. Mouth open indignantly, ready to fire off a string of words that undoubtedly start with “fuck” and end with “you.” But that's childish and she doesn't need the girls to hear her so she takes a deep breath and reigns it in, tries to compose herself.

 

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” she finally settles on, her voice a step from shaking. But Dan’s not as cognizant of his volume as she is, and he's ready to unleash a lot of pent up emotions on her.

 

“Then what did I just walk in on? Who the hell is that? I mean, christ, she’s up there with our kids. Do you even know her?!”   
  


“Stella has absolutely nothing to do with this!”

 

* * *

 

“Why are my parents fighting about you?” Jane asks slightly upset and more than a little confused by the strains of arguing that they're hearing upstairs. Thankfully Charlotte is occupied, sifting through her overnight bag and looking for a doll as they sit in the girl’s shared bedroom.

 

As soon as they'd come upstairs, Stella quickly grabbed a pair of pajama pants sitting out on Reed’s unmade bed. Afterwards checking in with the girls had overridden the part of her brain screaming that this whole situation was the most absurd thing that could have possibly happened. And now she sits on the floor, waiting patiently for Charlotte to find her doll while Jane barely attempts to disguise the fact that she's listening for snippets of her parents fighting. 

 

“Sometimes grown ups fight over one thing when they’re really upset about something else.”

 

“So they're fighting about you even though they're mad about something else?”

 

“I assume.”

 

And it's not a lie because none of this is really about Stella. It's about change and responsibility, hurt and commitment. In the end, she has nothing to do with those things, naked in Reed’s kitchen or otherwise.

 

“Well, that doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“A lot of things about being a grown up don’t make much sense.”   
  
“A lot of things about being a kid don’t make sense either,” Jane pouts before perking up at another round of heated words drifting through the ceiling. Thank god Charlotte's so engrossed in her task that Stella only has to really worry about one of them.

 

“You’re very smart.”

 

Jane smiles a little at the compliment and then takes a moment to really look at Stella. Guarded brown eyes form a window into which Stella can see gears spinning, some serious analysis and attitude at work. “So you’re my mum’s friend?”

 

“Yes, we used to work together.”

 

Stella can't blame Jane for being suspicious of her, it might be alarming if she weren't. Even if the twelve year old didn't fully understand what she saw downstairs, she's getting old enough to infer certain things. Maybe not a full picture, but one where passive excuses and obvious lies don't cut it. And Stella remembers her conversation with Reed over the phone a few nights ago, listening to her regale the traumas of a rather intense interrogation with the children. The prospect of trying to explain similar things to Reed’s girls without her consent makes Stella’s stomach twist. 

 

“Why are you in pajamas?”

 

“It got very late,” Stella starts, trying not to smile at the sharp intent behind Jane’s question. “And your mum was kind enough to let me sleep here.”

 

“Like a sleepover?” 

 

“Something like that.”

 

Mulling this over, Jane continues to openly stare at Stella, even as she seems to come to terms with her answer. Stella hasn't been observed this intently by a child in a long time, and it's only fitting that she should be in post-sex attire on top of it. Briefly, she feels more self conscious than she had downstairs.

 

“I love sleepovers,” Jane finally says rather matter of factly. “But my mum never lets me have them.”

 

“She does too,” Charlotte says, attention divided between the two of them and her doll, which she's now priming for show.

 

“Hardly ever.”

 

Charlotte’s arranged her doll’s hair just so and officially deems her fit enough to show Stella. The little one pridefully points out this and that about the doll, who has blonde hair and seems remarkably skilled at bending her flexible plastic limbs. Stella ‘ah’s at all the right moments, only about half understanding the tidbits of information being babbled in her direction. And then she notices Jane actively tuning them out as a few more choice words filter upstairs.

 

“Jane do you have a favorite?” Stella asks her, hoping to fulfill her end of this arrangement by distracting the girls until their parents are finished.

 

“Yes she does,” Charlotte answers when Jane ignores her question. “It’s Jade.”

 

“Why don't you come over here and show me Jade?”

 

“I know what you're doing,” she responds looking directly at her now, sass and aggravation both in full gear. “You just don't want me to hear.”

 

Stella waits a moment and cesses the child out before she explains, “I don’t think your mum would like it.” Jane listens but isn’t convinced and Stella continues with a bit of universal information, “And it’s not polite to listen in on other people’s conversations.” 

 

“I wouldn’t have to if they’d just tell me the truth,” Jane says heatedly but her admission is colored with dejection, and Stella knows the feeling. She remembers being that young and understanding so little. She remembers not being able to make sense of the life surrounding her in all of its glory and humility, beauty and gore. 

 

“I know it’s frustrating,” Stella tells her quietly. And she's about to deliver an untruth that she knows this situation requires. “But it’s only because they love you.”   
  


“That’s what they say.”

 

“That’s because it’s true.”

 

* * *

 

“How long have you been seeing her?” Dan asks, crossing his arms and widening his stance like it gives him more of a right to speak to her this way. Men. 

 

“That’s none of your business.”   
  
“If she’s going to be around the girls it's my business,” he says indignantly.

 

“She wouldn’t be if you’d spent the weekend with them like you were supposed to.”

 

He gets quiet and looks fixated on her left shoulder, something intense and tumultuous forming in his mind. His voice is low and even when he asks her.

 

“Were you having an affair?”

 

It’s a fair question. Especially considering the fact that she'd almost slept with Stella before the split. But she hadn't so she could answer this question truthfully and live with herself when it was asked.

 

“No.”

 

He nods harshly, succinctly and stares at the floor for a long while. Apparently he believes her. Or maybe he doesn’t, she can’t say for sure, but he’s certainly weighing his next move. And there it is, his eyes. The ones she’d fallen in love with. Pleading and puppy dogged, large and wanting. They’re staring into her and it’s like watching a home movie on VHS. Archaic and out of date. Nostalgic all the same.  

 

“Tanya, I’m trying,” he implores. “I want to make this work.”

 

And it would be so easy. It would be so easy to fall into this trap, the one that’s allowed her to stay with him for this long. That mask of caring, the one that says ‘I’ll do better, forgive me.’ She can’t take it anymore.

 

“Stunts like today - dropping the girls off out of nowhere, saying that I missed your call… It doesn’t feel like you’re trying. It feels like you’re making excuses.”

 

“What do you want?!” he says and it’s booming, the kind of volume you get at a sports event. “I’m looking for a new job! I’m looking for a place down here. I’ll do whatever it takes.”   
  


“Just be there for them, it's that simple,” she says softly, trying to bring the conversation down to an appropriate decibel. “I don’t understand why that’s such a hard concept to grasp.”

 

He hangs his head a little and Reed watches as Stella’s lacey underwear catches his eye. He blinks hard and looks away, taking a moment to collect himself. “Look if this is something you have to do, I’ll find a way to get over it.” He’s looking at her now, directly and rationally, and she worries this might be her downfall. Because anger is one thing and logic is another. “But you made a commitment to this family and we should at least try to make it work. The girls deserve it.”

 

It stings her somewhere deep inside, somewhere where the guilt she harbors over the entire situation festers and grows. The girls. What the girls deserve. She’s gone over it so many times in her head and it’s what’s kept her from leaving a thousand times over. It’s unsustainable, this idea of staying together just for the sake of their children. 

 

“Please don’t tell me what the girls deserve. Please don’t do that. Not when you’re breaking plans with them.”   
  
“God dammit none of this would be happening if you’d just let us be a family! I didn’t do that Tanya, you did.”   
  


“Leave.” It comes out low and gravelly. She’s done with this, she’s done going over what’s been done and what’s been said. It’s not part of her prescription, it’s not part of moving forward. “I’m not having this conversation with you again. Not right now. Not when you have such pressing client emergencies to get to.”

 

There’s a long few seconds in which he looks at her, eyes drilling into her in a way that feels intensely uncomfortable. But she doesn’t flinch and she doesn’t look away. She has nothing to hide. Well, not much, anyway. And when he realizes that the conversation’s come to an end, he takes one last lingering look around, observing the mess, observing Reed.

 

“Might want to clean up before they come back down,” he says bitterly before turning around, making his way back down the hallway and towards the door, closing it a bit too hard as he exits.

 

He doesn't say goodbye to his daughters.

 

Reed takes a few moments to breathe, tries to let the angry energy slip away with each exhale. 

 

It’s a mostly failed effort.

 

But she won’t let him ruin this day. Far from her initial imaginings, it’s still her day to claim and claim it she will.

 

So she gathers the discarded clothing in her arms and marches upstairs to deposit it behind the closed door of her bedroom. Then she goes to the bathroom and takes several deep breaths, splashing cool water over her face as she braces herself to face Stella. There are some things that you just can't come back from and this feels like one of them. Why can't she have  _ anything _ ? 

 

Terrified, Reed slips quietly out of the bathroom and approaches the cracked door to the girls’ room, a sliver of light bleeding into the hallway. She pushes it open gently and sees that Charlotte and Jane have very specifically lined up their favorite dolls all in a row with each of their best accessories. Her girls seem enraptured in explaining the intricacies of each doll and the relationships they all have to each other. Reed’s heard it countless times. 

 

And she sees that Stella has thrown on a pair of fleece pants with a plaid pattern, a holiday gift from her husband two years ago. She’s sat down purposefully before the lineup listening as best as an adult can to the rapid back-and-forth of her children enthusiastically rambling over each other. Reed owes her big time, it seems like she may never be able to dig herself out of this woman's debt.

 

Then Charlotte notices her peeking with a wide toothy smile, “Mum! Come play with us!”

 

“Inside voices,” Reed says softly at her youngest’s shriek of excitement. And she ventures further in the room as Stella turns looking over her shoulder. She doesn't look like she hates Reed forever. All things considered she looks entirely normal, that's a good sign. “How's everything in here?”

 

It's a question mostly directed at Stella but Jane quickly replies, “We’re showing Stella how to play.” As if the wide arrangement of dolls wasn't clue enough.

 

Reed settles herself on the edge of Jane’s bed and teasingly asks, “Is she any good?” Stella gives her a subtlety admonishing glance and Reed just grins.

 

“We haven't started yet, come play with us and you can be Delia,” Charlotte says quickly as incentive.

 

Reed laughs a little, somewhat mystified by how unaffected they all seem up here. Then as if on cue, Jane’s asking, “Did Dad leave?” And reality quickly hemorrhages into their world of make-believe. And everybody’s silent, looking at Reed with big eyes. Well, except for Stella, who's politely looking down, a small attempt to give her some space if she needs it. 

 

“He did.”

 

“He didn't say goodbye,” Jane says quietly and there's a small note of hurt in it.

 

“I know, I'm sorry. He was in a hurry, remember.”

 

“Yeah,” she says. Charlotte looks at Jane trying to gauge her reaction, she usually takes note from her sister on how to feel during these situations. Reed’s not sure if she's glad of that yet. But then Jane’s perking up. “Did he tell you about the V&A? He promised you'd take us.”

 

“What’s this now?”

 

“He promised to take us to see the Hollywood dresses at the V&A. And then when he was dropping us off he promised you'd take us instead.”

 

“You want to go to a museum?” Jane nods. Reed’s always been proud to have bright and inquisitive children but she never honestly thought they’d ask to go to a museum for fun. “Charlotte you too?” Charlotte looks at Jane and nods enthusiastically.

 

“They're supposed to have the costumes from  _ Titanic _ !”

 

Ah, bingo. Jane’s newest obsession with epic romantic films, specifically  _ Titanic _ . And Jane’s never expressed too much interest in boys yet but Reed wonders if she’ll have a love sick teenager on her hands before she knows it. 

 

“Stella can come too!” Charlotte adds. “And then we can finish our game.”

 

“Now wait a minute, girls-”

 

“She said she would play with us.”

 

“Stella's a very busy person with a lot to do. Maybe she can play another time.”

 

“But then she'll miss the V&A!” Jane wines. “It's going to be so fun! They’ve got so many dresses!”

 

“Please!”

 

Never underestimate the energy of an 8 and 12 year old during their post-breakfast sugar stride.

 

Gracious as ever, Stella sits patiently with a warm smile, allowing Reed to take the lead on this one. And yes, Reed can envision the way her girls might gravitate towards Stella, because doesn't everybody, but she certainly wasn’t expecting this level of interest. Then again, she’d offered to play. And they fall almost immediately in love with anyone willing to indulge their games. She hadn’t considered that. Then again, she hadn’t considered most of how this morning would unfold.

 

“Why don't you let me and Stella talk for a minute in the hallway, alright?”

 

Reed gives the girls a pointed look as Stella gets up and then there's a quick, “Behave,” before shutting the door softly behind her.

 

“First of all,” Reed says turning to her and leaning her shoulder against the wall. “I am  _ so sorry _ ,” she whispers. Before Stella can say anything she’s hurriedly adding, “Second of all, you absolutely do not have to placate them. Don’t feel the least bit guilty about it.”

 

Stella looks at her with understanding eyes that glitter with amusement.

 

“Breathe.”

 

“I'm so embarrassed.”

 

“Don't be.”

 

“How can you say that?”

 

“Well I'm the one who practically exposed myself to your children,” says pulling at the ends of her t-shirt and there's a hint of laughter in her voice. Thank god for that. “Not an ideal first impression.”

 

“I'm so sorry. I don't know why he's like this, I don't know why I expected this to be any different than-”

 

“Shhh,” Stella says running her palms over Reed’s arms. Her touch is so calming, why is it so calming? Why do things seem to make more sense through her eyes? “Everything's fine.”

 

“How are you so unphased by this?!” Reed practically bursts because it's just unnatural. It's unnatural to be so lovely and perfect and calm when the world is falling apart. “Why aren't you running from this flat? I live here and I want to run!” Stella chuckles and Reed goes on, “Seriously?”

 

Stella shrugs, smiling at her. So Reed takes her advice and breathes because Stella must be doing something right, and at this point it wouldn't hurt to listen to her. And after centering herself a bit, she opens her eyes and is met with Stella's inviting beauty in full force. It's no wonder her children are already in love with her. The mesmerizing way she manages to command and comfort in the same manner as a winding river or steady breeze. 

 

“Sounds like they like you.”

 

“They're charming.”

 

“You say that now,” Reed teases, lacing her fingers through Stella’s and for a split second she feels drastically younger, immature and unaffected by the madness of the outside world. She wonders what this day would have been like if the last 20 minutes simply never happened. What it would be like to spend the day with her. And perhaps that's not totally lost but it'll be a much different sort of day than the one she’ll never know. “Listen, you're welcome to come but please don't feel pressured.”

 

“Would it be better for you if I didn't?”

 

“No - I mean, you want to?” 

 

“There are worse things to do on a Saturday.”

 

“What about shopping?” 

 

“There's always tomorrow.” Reed looks bewildered.

 

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

“Was it everything you hoped it would be and more?” Reed asks Jane as they all sit contentedly with their lunch in a cafe a few blocks from the museum. It's quaint and trendy, which seems to be the theme these days. Small cafes with a variety of organic healthy options and unique coffee blends, as if anyone can really tell them apart. Little trinkets and small plants decorate the tables and walls, meant to give it that homey feel and Reed likes it. Must be why they keep making them all like this.

 

Jane takes a comically large bite of her sandwich and Reed anticipates that she’ll only eat half. And she probably should have let her daughters split one considering how large they are, but she likes to give them the opportunity to finish if they're hungry enough. A rare occurrence with this much food but it happens. Thankfully Jane minds her manners in front of Stella and doesn't immediately jump to answer until she's finished chewing. In the meantime there's some vigorous nodding. 

 

“I liked Dorothy,” Charlotte says. “Even though the red shoes weren't as sparkly as I thought.” 

 

“They're very old,” Stella points out. “75 years, remember?”

 

“Yeah, that's as old my mum.”

 

“Charlotte,” Reed says trying not to laugh. “Since when am I 75?”

 

“I don't know… How old are you?”

 

“Not that old, finish your lunch.”

 

Stella’s eyes laugh at her from across the table as she forks through her salad. 

 

“Stella how old are you?”

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

“Curious.”

 

“Charlotte,” Reed scolds her.

 

“What did I say wrong?”

 

“Nothing.” Stella replies simply. “I'm 41.”

 

“That's old.”

 

Reed pinches the bridge of her nose.

 

“I'm sure it must seem so.”

 

“You don't look that old,” Jane says eyeing Stella curiously.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I hope I'm pretty like you when I'm 41,” Charlotte says.

 

Stella raises her eyebrows trying to suppress an amused grin. 

 

“Alright, that's enough you two. Leave Stella alone.”

 

“I was just being nice!”

 

Reed holds Stella’s eyes for a long moment, the words  _ help me _ shooting from her eyes with a subtle shake of her head. Stella can't help but laugh, and it’s a real one.

 

The girls finish up their food without much more embarrassment on Reed’s behalf. And as they leave, Charlotte takes Stella's hand without giving her much choice in the matter. Her youngest is obviously enamored with Stella and seeing them together suddenly gives Reed pause. Because Charlotte takes to a lot of people, so it's not entirely out of character. But this is Stella.

 

For the most part, Reed can handle the unwanted visions of how she might end up hurt in all this, hurt falling for someone who doesn't ask to be fallen for. And as much as she kids herself, she'd probably started falling for Stella the moment she saw her. But her children are another matter entirely. Reed’s not blind, Stella's the dangerous kind of alluring that pulls you in and asks for nothing. And when it's gone you're left wondering why you felt so entitled to any sort of claim in the first place. It’s the kind of dangerous that doesn’t go well with children, with commitment.

 

Maybe she’s just being overprotective.

 

Under this new lense, Reed looks for signs of discomfort in Stella. Perhaps she should tell Charlotte not to cling. But as she looks on, Stella seems fine with the new charm dangling playfully around her wrist. She listens intently as Charlotte twists and talks, bouncing as the four of them walk down the street. And she’s entirely herself, as she is with anything, somehow perfectly  _ Stella _ and somehow perfectly not. Because Reed’s watching her with a child, her child, and watching Stella with children is something else.

 

Then Jane looks up at her questioningly, and Reed realizes that she’s gone a bit quiet under the weight of her thoughts. And now her daughter’s eyes look up at her, searching to see if something’s wrong. Reed gives her a smile.

 

“Did you have fun?” she asks her softly, grabbing her hand with a gentle squeeze.

 

Jane nods and looks to Charlotte and Stella, eyes lingering and then turning back to Reed. “Stella’s nice,” she observes quietly.

 

“She is. Do you like her?”

 

Jane nods a little less enthusiastically, a little more thoughtfully. “Is she spending the night again?”

 

Reed has to bite back the rush of fear at her daughter’s question before realizing how innocent it probably is. “I don't think so,” she says trying to gauge whether or not Jane’s upset by her answer. But her eldest seems entirely willing to accept either option, nodding slightly in consideration. “She'll probably want to go home. I don't think she was expecting such a hectic afternoon with you two.”

 

Jane laughs and Stella looks over at her, a gentle smile settled across her face. And Reed is happy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yo I am so sorry for the delay between chapters. Writing is actually super difficult for me so it takes a LOT of time to get this stuff out. Hope that anyone following this story will find it worth while to stick around. Much appreciation to those who have kept with it xoxo


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to @TheRobbinsGang, @JenSchwartz21, @SpookyHadley and @nicole_golding! This chapter you will meet a new character with red hair. This is not Scully. Just throwing it out there. She is an original character completely inspired by Julianne Moore. Also Cherry Jones is 100% the muse for Stella’s boss, incase you guys like to know stuff like that.

Lavender and linen. Pillowed by her favorite scents, she finally lets her body relax. Steam exhales off the surface of the scorchingly hot water as Stella searches within herself for a certain kind of peace that she rarely finds anywhere else.

 

It's a sanctuary of sorts, her bathtub. In fact, it's the only selling point that drew her to this flat in the first place. And it's not lavish or extraordinary but it's certainly above average. Enough real estate for a few candles and frothy soaps. Afterall, the only place she seeks true unadulterated solace deserves an ‘above average’ descriptor at the very least. 

 

And after the day she's had, she desperately needs it. Needs anything to ground her.

 

The air she drags into her lungs feels thick and reluctant to be there, taking up too much room inside her. She pushes it out and repeats the process hoping it will lull her senses into submission, but it just makes her side ache with pain. And with that pain, memories from the night before spark to life in her body, goosebumps rippling across her arms. She lets herself remember the flush of arousal that flourished in wake of Reed’s strength, surprising and addictive in equal parts. Unfortunately, she knows it’s going to be awhile before she’ll experience it again. No matter how intoxicating, if Stella doesn't start exercising restraint she might further injure herself, which means taking more time off work. And she can’t do that. 

 

Not now.

 

Even as she takes another deep breath and feels the sharp spasm of tired muscles, she doesn't regret it. She’d still let Reed throw her and fuck her into any given number of surfaces, bruised or otherwise. Which is frankly the problem, she reminds herself. Then again, Stella welcomes the pain on most nights anyway. Which is frankly the bigger problem, she reminds herself.

 

That particular thought will have to wait for another night though. Right now she's supposed to be dissolving into nothingness. 

 

So she delicately picks up the tumbler sitting at the ledge of the tub and brings it to her lips, tipping back amber liquid until it trails fire down her throat and into her veins. Stella’s never been the praying sort but she feels a little prayer follow it down nonetheless. As she returns the drink to its rightful perch, the sound of the glass colliding with porcelain echoes loudly in the silence of her bathroom, clunky and not at all relaxing. She should've put some music on before running the tub. It might’ve helped suppress the restlessness rearing up inside her.

 

And she should have seen this coming after spending so much time with Reed and her girls. 

 

Not that it had been a bad day, no. By any measure it was actually lovely, one of her best days as of late, easy. Not bad.

 

But good?

 

What was good? 

 

Water laps heatedly over her skin and Stella’s not sure she knows how to recognize good, not when it comes to herself, and certainly not when it comes to her personal life. Things that make her feel good usually prove destructive given enough time. 

 

Children, however, are not destructive - or at least they’re not meant to be.

 

Somehow they always seem to manage it with Stella. 

 

Innocent images of Olivia swirl in the slippery water, her sweet face mixing with suds until Stella feels a heavily salted tear greet her upper lip. Thinking of Olivia is also decidedly not a good idea. Not in her sanctuary. Not when she’s spent the day with two bright and energetic young girls of a similar age, both of whom have reasonably healthy and caring parents.

 

Stella’s both glad and regretful to have met them. 

 

All too often, children have a way of attaching themselves - to friends, to adults, to strangers upon first meet, and Stella’s not really someone worth latching onto, she knows this about herself. She likes her space and the freedom to tend to herself, usually in ways that remove unpredictable variables. Like partners. And friends. Children. She’s learned the hard way, even the things that seem permanent are fleeting.

 

In the same contradicting breath, she finds herself in a strange place right now, willing and perhaps even wanting to be latched onto. Remembering Charlotte’s twinkling eyes, she smiles to herself.

 

It feels like a trap.

 

One of her own making.

 

And this fucking neediness keeps bubbling up inside her. The kind of neediness that doesn’t want to come home to an empty flat that she can’t sleep in. The kind of neediness that has her tagging along to museums and having lunch. The kind of neediness that allows others to become attached simply because she’s there. Absence is the best way to avoid all of this and yet she doesn’t want to be absent. 

 

She hates herself for it.

 

She hates Paul Spector for it even more. 

 

She should go back to Dr. Greene. Therapy seems consistently futile until she starts behaving like this and then very suddenly, it seems necessary. Because hurting herself has always been a better alternative to hurting others. All of the ugliness washed down the drain. No unnecessary tears shed on her behalf.

 

Easy enough to control.

 

But she doesn’t want to hurt Reed. And she doesn’t want to hurt those girls. 

 

Staring wistfully into the water, she wonders why the past always seems destined to repeat itself.

 

* * *

 

Monday, like many days before it, arrives with relief. 

 

She'd filled Sunday easily enough with errands, all of those niggling things that progressively get put off, finally accomplished. Then errands had been followed by the few sacred ‘rituals’ that she reserves for her sanity. And while manicures and sorting through soft cloth can do wonders for the psyche, they can only run the clock down so far. Nails eventually end up painted, clothing eventually ends up purchased, and Stella eventually ends up back in her flat wondering where to channel her energy.

 

So she'd tried to rest, used reading as an excuse to lay still after a long day of practicing self care as a guise - she often thinks of it that way. Can something truly be considered ‘self care’ when it’s more of a means to avoid self annihilation? She’s not sure.

 

Much to her surprise, the reading exercise half-helped. She’d picked up a dusty paperback about the ancient goddesses of India, Nepal, and Tibet that had been lying neglected on her shelf for ages. Then she’d settled onto her sofa and started from the beginning. Immersing herself in the ideas and beliefs of other cultures, ones so different from her own, helps create this crucial sort of distance from her own life. The kind that gives her perspective. 

 

So the pages turned and the minutes flew. Then an hour or two in, Devi and the tantric practice were interrupted by the sound of her phone vibrating somewhere off to her left.

 

As it turned out, no one significant was at the other end. Just her pharmacy attempting to refill a prescription she no longer used.

 

Suddenly, it made her think of Reed. She hadn't heard from her all day... Not that she wanted or expected to after such an emotionally conflicting afternoon the day before. Definitely for the best that Stella had the day completely to herself.

 

But without warning or permission, it was there again - that acrid yearning she loathed so much. Longing for things she did not want or need. Afterall, Stella should have been grateful for Reed’s absence, the space she so often craves in all relationships suddenly bestowed upon her without instruction or behest. However the feeling only brought on tormenting memories of fluorescent lights and sterile smells, the same pain in her ribs but worse. 

 

So the thought of texting Reed for no apparent reason lingered resolutely on her chest for a few minutes. Then she came to her senses and pushed it away. Stella was many things but this indigent shell of person was not one of them. Silencing her phone, she went back to her book, bathed somewhat peacefully, put on some music, and drank scotch.

 

Didn’t think about Reed.  

 

And here’s Monday, so conveniently at her doorstep. Accompanied graciously by work, the perfect opportunity to bury herself in a far more productive manhunt than the one playing out in her head.

 

Grateful for the reprieve, Stella takes advantage of her day and arrives at work early. Without hesitation, she walks through the halls more confident and determined to be there. Finally, she can start putting all of this shit behind her and keep moving. She’s not in Belfast anymore and she’s not floating around aimlessly. There’s a job to be done and for the most part, she does it pretty damn well.

 

It’s almost abnormal how effortlessly the day rolls on. She encounters fewer problems, and far fewer provoking colleagues than she might have expected. No one mentions Spector. No one looks at her like they’ve read her fucking journal. 

 

That is, until she’s sitting across from her direct superior in a silence that brings everything to a halting focus.

 

To be fair, it was inevitable.

 

Belfast was a disaster comprised of fuckup after fuckup, and as the presiding DSI, each of those fuckups were her’s to own and wear. It was only a matter of time before someone reprimanded her for the fallout. She knows and accepts this, and thus sits quietly waiting to defend herself.

 

She has no idea how to justify any of it. 

 

Spencer is silent as she leafs through the thick stack of reports, several of which Stella wrote herself, others by Burns, and so on. A grim line draws itself across her brow as she flips through them, stiff backed, eyes hard.

 

On most days, Stella is grateful to have Jo Spencer for a boss. She’s easily older than Stella and today, she wears her greying brown hair in a sensible twist. A feminine hairstyle that doesn't carry any of its intended softness on this woman. And over the years, Stella’s been forced to work for several stupidly proud men - none of them could hold a candle to the integrity with which this woman regards her position.

 

Still, Stella doesn’t look forward to these meetings. 

 

Even though there's a certain level of camaraderie amongst women in their field, CS Spencer possesses very little tolerance for shortcomings. Of course, there are always exceptions, mistakes happen and the job is unpredictable. But there’s a sharpness to her that’s not exactly unkind but occasionally difficult to navigate. In so many ways, Stella recognizes and admires similar traits in herself until she’s met with them directly, usually under circumstances very much like these. Surrounded by failure and having admittedly fucked up.

 

All the signs are there, the ones that tell Stella that she should be worried, the signs that tell her this won't be pleasant. She sees them in the way Spencer delineates over the paperwork, remaining silent, making her wait.

 

It goes on forever until she eventually sits back, looking at Stella almost as if she’s waiting for her to speak first. From experience, Stella knows that is not the way it works. Spencer likes to set the tone, likes to control the pace and it’s best to wait her out. Hands folded on her lap, Stella quietly tries to ignore the scrutiny, maintaining her composure, keeping still.

 

When her boss finally speaks, it’s more forgiving than Stella might have expected.

 

“How're you doing?”

 

In light of everything, it’s a simple question with a rather complicated answer.  _ How is she doing? _ Well, there are countless ways she could respond to that, none of which feel complete or appropriate. Thankfully it’s also a question that doesn’t require her full range of honesty, only honesty in relation to the work and whether she’s capable of doing it. And Stella’s always been capable of doing it. 

 

“Fine,” she answers evenly.

 

But as the stunted word, “ _ fine,” “just fine,” “I’m doing fine,” _ leaves her lips, Spencer’s eyes narrow. Almost instantly, the woman zeroes in on her bullshit. And it would be a relief to be called on it if it weren’t irritating as hell.

 

Stella twists her lips a little self-consciously and elaborates the only way she knows how: by answering the real question she’s being asked. “Ready and able to be here.”

 

“It’s difficult from the reports to make heads or tails of the progression, or rather - the unravelling, of this case,” Spencer responds practically cutting Stella off, as if she hadn’t expected a genuine or useful response even after prodding. She would’ve been right.

 

“How exactly,” she continues like a bulldozer clearing a path for her own needs, “the situation escalated so quickly out of control. Is there any clarity you can offer me, now that you’re here?”

 

This is another thing that Stella usually appreciates about her superior, she only plays hardball. Fast. Direct. The only challenging thing is now Stella’s not sure how to answer this seemingly more impossible question. The entirety of her experiences condensed. How to reduce a novel into a single sentence…

 

After a moment’s thought, she settles on three words.

 

“He was underestimated.”

 

“I can see that. But not by you.”

 

“With all due respect, that's not true.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“My hotel room. He entered and then proceeded to leave entirely unnoticed,” she explains, and the invasion feels as fresh as it had then. “56 minutes.”

 

“I’m painting in broader strokes, so to speak. Big picture.”

 

Ah, yes, the big picture. The one where the violation of her space and her sanity were insignificant compared to the lives lost and ruined. Big picture, big picture. How did the entire PSNI underestimate him? How did the law refuse to acknowledge and then proceed to control such a formidable threat? How did things start so badly and only get worse?

 

“People don’t like to see what’s right in front of them. It’s easier to believe something else.” 

 

Generic. It could just as easily be some cheap quote at the top of a self-help book. But it’s the best she’s got. The only explanation for death while ignorance persists. Humanity is blind to itself, which is occasionally a blessing and in this case, a curse. 

 

Spencer thinks on this for a minute or so, and then deems Stella’s version of a ‘broad stroke’ acceptable enough to move on. And thank god they manage to communicate this way, in that existential sense where sometimes sweeping explanations make more sense than detailed reports.

 

Then she ponders, eyes drilling into Stella as if she could piece this puzzle together using the turquoise map of her iris. The next thing she says is offered up as a statement, not a question.  

 

“He came after you personally. More than once.” 

 

“Yes.”

 

Stella hates this answer most of all.

“Intimately so. Physically so.”

 

“Yes.”

 

But pushing that second  _ yes _ out was more painful than the first...

 

“And you still think you’re able to be here?”

 

“Yes.”

 

That one’s easier. And it’s not a lie. She is able to be here and willing to be here and wanting to be here.

 

Perhaps just not in that order. 

 

“Are you seeing someone?”

 

“Considering it.”

 

“I'm not ordering you to but strongly advising it, Stella.”

 

“Understood.”

 

If they’re not ordering her to see a shrink, she should count her blessings. She really should. Whether it’s a mistake on their part or not. 

 

“I hear Burns is a fucking wreck. I’m not surprised.” Stella sees a knowing twinkle flash in her direction and she wonders how much Spencer really knows about Jim Burns, about his history. How many of his secrets are not secrets and maybe never were… “You'll be going back in a few weeks I assume.”

 

“Most likely.”

 

More silence. More staring. More time for Stella to wonder how far she’ll fall for this one. 

 

“Don’t take on more of this than you deserve.”

 

And it’s softer than it should be, layered with unbridled concern that makes Stella feel sick. Because who’s to say that she and Jim Burns don’t belong to the same category of transparency? Maybe everyone knows how badly this case has fucked with her, worst of all her boss.  _ Don’t take on more of this than you deserve _ . If only she knew what Stella actually deserved, the full weight of every shattered life bearing down on her soul.

 

She deserves it all. 

 

“Is that all?”

 

“There’s one more thing,” Spencer says reaching into a drawer and pulling out a neat pile of newspapers, laying them presentationally on her desk. “I’m sure you’re aware that some interesting press was sent my way during your time there.”

 

Pictures of Stella and James Olson stare back at her, ink bleeding onto the pages shouting sensational headlines, dripping with fictitious invention and bullshit. Mostly bullshit. Stella’s not sure what Spencer wants from her on this account. Then again, Stella’s not sure what anyone wants from her on this account. It was completely personal and thus completely irrelevant. 

 

“It was unrelated to the inquiry.”

 

“That's beside the point.” 

 

“An unfortunate and unforeseeable circumstance then.”

 

“Also beside the point.”

 

“Forgive me, mam, but what exactly is the point?”

 

“I don't have to tell you,” Spencer replies pointedly,  _ you already know _ . And perhaps she does but then again, denial is popular for a reason. “Consider taking precautions, Stella, over that which is in your control. 

 

“Don't make it necessary for us to have this discussion again.”   
  


* * *

 

 

Stella makes an effort to roll her shoulders back as she exits Spencer’s office. It's like a forced recentering as she straightens her spine from the top down, shutting the door silently behind her.

 

All things considered, she walks away feeling relatively unscathed. And of course that just makes her feel worse. Seems to emphasize how fucking tragic everything turned out if they’re willing to go easy on her. For the time being, at least. There will be more, surely there will be more - more repercussions, more inquiries. It’s only a matter of time.

 

Until then, until she’s back in Belfast reliving it all again, and until they come down on her like they undoubtedly will, she’ll keep her head down, focus on work, try not to make more trouble. The most she can hope for is two out of those three things.

 

Mulling over how much time she has before the next blow, Stella makes her way through the bustling corridors and back to her office.

 

As she rounds a corner, there's a glimpse of red that flashes across her periphery. A drape of auburn waves that rapidly pull her attention like the deafening sound of a car accident. And it has her faltering, walking and stopping all at once, tripping over her stilettoed heels.

 

Such a small thing - the unmistakable curve of hair against someone’s shoulder, how the mere image of it can transport a person through time.

 

And it might seem unlike her, but this isn't new for Stella. It’s happened before. In coffeeshops, crossing the street on a crowded day, a simple ray of sunlight shining just  _ so _ . It feels like walking through the sensation of deja vu, all vivid familiarity surging through her body, leaving her weightless. The reality of her world distorted through the prisms of a recurring dream. These tricks of light have a way of snagging her soul like fabric, creating torn fibers that need tucking into place. All jarring and all wrong.

 

Then the feeling evaporates as if it were never there. 

 

Tangled locks usually turn just slightly, less than an inch, barely a degree, and they’re never attached to the rest of Stella’s memory. It’s never the picture she remembers. And then she’s left to force herself back into the present. Keep walking.

 

Only this time everything keeps going. It’s like being trapped in a perpetual vortex as Stella’s memories complete themselves, turning toward her, a full picture. The one she’s imagined time and again. With haunting blue eyes and a strong jaw, she still has a natural dusting of freckles that grace her sloped cheekbones.

 

Bizarre.

 

So the same and yet so different. Not that different.

 

Her face did always look like art, even when it was crumbling with emotion. Like right now. Time hasn’t changed that. 

 

“Stella?”

 

_ “Stella?” _

 

_ Rain lashes angrily against the window, cracks of thunder startling her more than the phone had. Her book sits askew across her chest, pages rumpled and she’ll regret falling asleep with it later. She hates creases. The telephone line goes gravelly as she holds it closer, the sound cutting in and out, spitting static in her ear. How late is it? _

 

_ “Stella? Can you come down here?” _

 

_ Shit. _

 

_ That’s not good. Her voice sounds like bent metal, twisted under the weight of tears, all warped and scraped.  _

 

_ “What's wrong?” _

 

_ “I just - I need…” _

 

_ Then there’s a noise that Stella’s not sure she can bear hearing, even over this shitty phone connection. Something between a sob and a scream, but so quiet that it must be stuck inside her chest somewhere, clawing to get out. It’s followed by a harsh strangled breath.  _

 

_ “Can you come down here?” _

 

“Stella? What're you doing here?”

 

And she doesn’t sound quite like she had that night when the sky was painted with lightning. And she looks better than she had that night when her face was streaked with black. But the anguish is there and the years between them can’t erase Stella’s instinctual reaction, the need to envelop her had always been there. 

 

Yet Stella just stands there, stupid and stunned because twenty years will do that to a person.

 

“I work here.”

 

“Oh god, you work here?” 

 

Then she’s stepping closer, so shaken and so hopeful, almost touching Stella’s silky sleeve before she catches herself. And is Stella grateful or angry for it? She can’t really tell. It’s almost as if she’s watching the whole thing from a distance, like she’s not really there at all. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“I need your help.”

_ I need your help. _

 

_ I need you. _

 

This is so wrong, so out of place, a waking nightmare. Why is she here? Stella’s work is a place for chasing shadows into dark corners. And Stella had wanted to see her so badly over the years but never here, never in this place. Yet here she is, here they both are.

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

“It's my son.” 

 

Son. Her son. She has a son. Stuck in this altered reality where it’s been twenty years and she has a son, Stella’s mental faculties work about as well as a stalled-out motor. Nothing processes, nothing computes. It's like having to restart herself with every new piece of information.

 

“They think he did something awful,” she continues, “I just - they…”

 

God, it’s so the same.

 

She’s so the same in so many ways. Mannerisms, this upset, the way her words fumble into one another, the emotion seeping out in her vowels. Stella’s seen it so many times. And having it played out before her right now feels like too much, it sets too many memories in motion.

 

She needs it to stop. Just so she can wrap her mind around it.

 

But there’s just more. More talking, more stuttering, more upset.

 

She can’t hear it.

 

Just stop.

 

“Shhh,” Stella whispers. “Shhh, it's okay.” Her arms reach forward as she says it and twenty years ago, she would have touched her. Twenty years ago she would have done a lot of things.

 

“Sit down, sit over here.” Stella points behind her to a row of chairs lining the hall.

 

_ Calm down. Sit. Just sit _ .

 

And as she walks her over to the uncomfortable looking plastic chairs, Stella notices a hovering officer, someone young. Stella’s surely seen him before but right now, she doesn’t know his name. Clearly, he’s meant to be assisting her but having witnessed this delirious reunion, seems to have backed off to the side.

 

Then he’s gone from Stella’s immediate concerns as the woman before her caves into the plastic chair. Bending at the knee so they’re eye-level, Stella waits for her to compose herself, and watches a little too intently as her leg bounces compulsively up and down.

 

And then she tries to convince herself that she hasn’t been drugged. 

 

“They're asking questions, and they won't let me in.” Her watery blue eyes find their way to Stella, pleading with her to do something. And then they shift to the nameless officer lingering a few feet away, turning altogether accusatory at the sight of him. Stella follows her gaze and turns towards him in kind.

 

“Who’s leading this?” she asks, trying to get some commanding volume behind her voice.

 

“Westfield.”

 

Well, that’s good. Good and bad. Good because Westfield likes her, she might be able to get something out of him. Bad because Westfield doesn’t deal with petty crimes, which means it’s serious. 

 

“You have to help me. He's only 16.”

 

Sixteen. Definitely serious. A sixteen year-old,  _ her sixteen year-old _ , caught up in something worth Westfield’s time. And Stella tries very hard to focus on the gravity of the situation rather than the seemingly very real delusion manifested before her. 

 

“Okay,” she breathes. Focus. Do something. Stop gaping. “What's his name?”

 

“Dean.”

 

“Last name?”

 

“Parker.”

 

Parker. Dean Parker. 

 

_ Parker _ .

 

No.

 

The world stops. Everything goes a little fuzzy as Stella forces herself to process this last bit. She can hear the booming sound of her heartbeat and nothing else as it grows exponentially faster. And she finally makes herself look, needing confirmation, needing to know the truth. Blue delving into blue, Stella looks at her, really looks into her eyes. And what she sees there is devastating.

 

“Gwen…”

 

Gwen’s eyes shut painfully tight, head hanging shamefully as her fist digs into her forehead.

 

“Stella,” she breathes, “Please.” More tears slip down her sloped face, a tormented tremor shaking her thin frame. 

 

Being this close to her, Stella can only take so much. She reaches out, lithe fingers covering lithe fingers as she places one of her hands over Gwen’s, and almost immediately the shaking stops. 

 

Gwen looks down at the contact, seeing the place where their hands meet. And their fingers are cold against each other. Especially since all of the blood in Stella’s body is focused on her heart, determined to keep it beating after a lifetime of breaking. Then there’s a smile, a soft one that blooms somberly across Gwen’s autumn lips, full of the morose history between them. 

 

It’s worse than the shaking and worse than her tears. Stella clears her throat. 

 

“Stay put,” she says pulling her hand away with a gentle rub of her thumb and a tight jaw. “I'll ask around, see what's happening.”

 

“Jesus, are you going to pull it together? Or do I need to take you home?” Gwen goes visibly rigid and looks up over Stella's shoulder.

 

If memory serves, he doesn't have the most distinct voice in the world, not one that Stella cares to remember anyway. But even if she doesn’t remember his voice, she definitely recognizes the look on Gwen's face as she takes him in. Too many times Stella’s seen it not to associate it with the man behind her.

 

And then a grimace pulls at Gwen’s mouth as tries to erase the pain from her voice. “I'm fine,” she says drawing in on herself and wiping an eye.  

 

“This is ridiculous,” he scoffs and Stella’s internal seismograph jumps, the needle scribbling all over the place at the volatile energy erupting from his mere proximity. Taking a steady breath, she braces herself and stands, turning toward the face of a man she'd happily forget. 

 

“Listen, I apologize for my wife but we're just trying to understand why…”

 

Time rewinds as she watches him spin his story, speaking to her like she's a stranger. He’s still charismatic, still charming on the drop of a dime. And it's never fooled her. He knows it's never fooled her, probably wouldn't bother trying it if he recognized her. But his handsome smile stays firmly in place and goddamnit, she wants him to recognize her. She wants to see his face turn sour at the realization. Perhaps a little fearful. 

 

And then sure enough, his words begin to fall off, finally registering the 20 years of life that have landed on Stella’s face.

 

“Stella?”

 

“Greg.”

 

“Greg, Stella works for the Met,” Gwen jumps in without moving from her spot on the chair, practically glued to it like a refuge. And when Stella glances at her, she looks vaguely terrified to watch the two of them interact. That shocking feeling of deja vu ricochets over Stella once more, and the three of them have been here too many times. “She's trying to help.”

 

“What’re the odds?” He laughs lightheartedly with an unmistakable edge to his voice. Eyeing her up and down studiously, he shoves his hands in his pockets and subtly squares his shoulders. Then he pushes out his chest as if he's sizing her up, as if she's some kind of threat. And she certainly is.

 

But then that charm’s back on. “Hell, it's been a long time, Stella.”

 

“Hm.”

 

“What’ve you been up to?”

 

“This.”   
  


“Huh,” it almost sounds like it should be a laugh but it’s not.

And then she walks away bluntly, heading straight for the junior detective who’s no longer hovering but rather observing. His eyes grow surprisingly round as Stella approaches. Sometimes people are intimidated by her but this seems a little extreme. Then again, her teeth are metaphorically bared and people aren't that different from animals in most ways.

 

“Stella Gibson,” she says holding out her hand by way of greeting. 

 

“I know, mam,” he says shaking it briskly. “Detective Gellar.”

 

She tries not to think about why he knows her and focuses on the task at hand. “Do you have a card? A business card that I could write on?”

 

“Sure thing,” he says reaching into several different pockets in search of a small rectangular card and ballpoint pen. He clicks it proudly upon discovery and hands it over to her.

 

“Now,” she says, jotting down a few numbers followed by the letter ‘S’ next to them. “I need you to do something for me. The next time he steps away,” she subtly indicates to Greg, “I need you to give this to that woman sitting down.” She holds his stare intensely before handing him the card, which he squints at inquisitively. “Be discreet. Tell her that I’ve asked you to give it to her, and to use it anytime. Can you do that?”

 

“Yes, mam.”

 

“Are you sure?” she asks seriously, taking another long look at him.

 

“I’m sure.”

 

“And have Westwood call me when he has a moment, it’s urgent.”

 

And with that, she’s gone.

 

* * *

 

In search of focus, Stella walks back to her office and asks James to set up a room where they can go over case notes together. There's mountains of paperwork that she hasn't gotten to yet, and what better time to make a dent than directly after an emotionally trying afternoon?

 

So the next few painful hours are spent pouring over pages upon pages. It’s all Stella can do to keep from going mad.

 

That focus she was determined to find is nowhere to be seen. She keeps falling in and out of concentration, losing her thoughts mid-sentence or zoning out as James explains the details of something or other. He notices of course, staring at her a little too long before turning to the next page. It's just so unlike her…

 

And as hard as she tries to stay present, it’s reflexive. Useless. Her mind keeps snapping back to the hallway.

 

Thinking back to Gwen’s pale eyes, the way they’d reached out so achingly, how they’d collapsed shut with guilt, she can't stop seeing it. Her troubled thoughts are accompanied by this feeling of dread that begins to take root in her core, heavy and sour as it inches into her spine. And the moment replays itself over and over, a constant projection reeling in her skull while she ‘mhm’s at James’ observations or highlights words that barely mean anything to her. 

 

It’s not fair, she knows it's not fair, this level of distraction is not appropriate at the office because people deserve better than that - victims, their families, James. The job deserves more of her than some half assed noted paperwork filed away for all eternity. 

 

But she can’t stop thinking about how small Gwen’s hand had felt beneath her’s, how familiar it felt. And how badly she just wants to fucking cry. Because after all this time, Stella still can't comprehend why she couldn't avoid this, why she couldn’t save her. It's the first lesson you learn and the hardest by far, you can't save everybody and not everybody wants to be saved. Cliché, so common in its proliferation that people don’t realize how devastating it is when it actually happens. 

 

Gwen had wanted to be saved though. And Stella had tried.

 

Not hard enough perhaps.

 

At some point over the last 20 years, she’d given up, stopped looking, convinced herself that Gwen had started a new life somewhere far away. Countless scenarios played out in her imagination, Spain, the Caribbean, California even. But now Stella can’t imagine, can’t fool herself into thinking Gwen had found something better after all this time. It was there then and it’s there now, that same desperation to get out, to get away from the confines of her own life. 

 

Greg Fucking Parker.

 

Is she  _ Gwen Parker _ now?

 

Of course she is. There’s not a universe that exists where Greg Parker’s wife doesn’t take his name. That much is obvious to Stella, it could be to anyone really. There’s so much about him that’s obvious to anyone willing to look beyond his pretty face and a few smooth words. The well-tailored veil doesn’t hide everything that’s jagged under there.

 

And he could live a thousand lifetimes without deserving her. 

 

Stella could scream. 

 

But as she tries to focus and as she tries to listen, she also tries to keep herself from becoming lost in the anger fuming up inside her.   

 

It just isn’t working very well.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

She closes her eyes. She takes a breath.

 

She is not alright.

 

Her chin tilts in his direction, peering at him from under tired eyelids. 

 

He looks back unflinchingly, comfortable in his concern, unafraid of the formidable figure everyone makes her out to be. And James always chooses his moments well, private moments where it feels safe to be presumptuous. They’ve worked together for a few years now, and he knows how to speak to her in these quiet spaces. More than most, he’s always managed to keep the weight of the world from hinging on her answers.

 

She clears her throat. “My mind is a bit elsewhere, I’m sorry.” 

 

“Need to talk about it?”

 

“No,” she says softly. Like so many things, it’s a reflex, to keep things close. And this is such a very close thing, she hasn’t let it out into the open - hasn’t talked about  _ her _ \- in a very long time. She’s not sure she even knows how anymore.

 

But there’s something in the way James looks at her, something genuine and trustworthy. He’s a very safe person, maybe her most safe person. It makes her feel compelled to share, even just a small bit with him.

 

Shaking her head, she looks down at the files spread across the table and runs her thumb along the edge of one. “A few hours ago, I ran into someone that I used to know. Here in the hall,” she sighs, wonders what else there is to say. There really isn’t much more to it than that. Simple. Soul crushing. And then she looks at him, worn eyes and slumped frame, a little defeated. “It’s strange, that’s all.”

 

Taking it in, he nods, accepting her answer. And then he’s quiet, he lets her words rest between them easily, patiently awaiting response amongst the company of their scattered documents. When he speaks, it’s a perfectly astute observation.

 

“The past seems to have a way of finding us.”

 

“It does, doesn’t it...” 

 

This is why she occasionally confides in him. He doesn’t press her for details. He doesn’t pick apart her confessions or try to offer her advice. It’s not what she needs, and definitely not what she wants. And he’s discerning in his feedback, short-winded, no clunky emotions tied to his thoughts.

 

“Maybe it’s a sign,” he offers.

 

And well, that’s different. It elicits a skeptical breath of laughter from her as she studies his sincere disposition.

 

“Do you really believe in signs, James?”

 

“Not most of the time, no,” he says smiling. He must realize how it sounds to hear coming from him. “My mum’s all for that sort of thing. And to her credit, she’s not wrong often enough. So maybe it’s a sign.” 

She thinks on this for a long moment.

 

And Stella never really had a mother, not in the traditional sense. Something about authentic ‘motherly’ advice has always been incredibly foreign and deeply alluring to her. It manages to shape people in ways they scarcely recognize, they’re just so close to it. James for example. Such a logical person from what she’s known of him, suggesting her afternoon run-in might be a sign. 

 

A sign of what? What could it possibly even mean? The mere notion that chance encounters, coincidences, hold meaning beyond themselves...

 

“A sign of what? ”she asks quietly, apparently out loud.

 

“We never really know right away, do we?”

 

“I guess not...”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a late night and it feels nice to have one of those again, as strange and twisted as that might seem. Reed likes to work, likes being productive so having an evening devoted to getting comfortable in her new office is like a gift.

 

This morning, Lydia had called to let her know that she’d be returning a day early from her trip. Then she’d offered to pick up the girls and entertain them for the evening with take-out and Disney, a few hours of singing Frozen before they fall flat. And however grateful Reed was for the free child care, it sounded suspiciously like Lydia was giving her permission to get laid. Her words said ‘I’ll take care of the girls’ while her tone said ‘go have hot lesbian sex’ or whatever she’d called it that time. While tempting, Reed decided to strictly take her sister up on baby sitting duty and leave the subtext for another time. She still has so much to do leading up to the new semester, including setting up her office, which keeps falling to the wayside.

 

Besides, if she’s being honest with herself, calling Stella doesn’t seem like a good idea. Reed had given her some space yesterday, which seemed entirely necessary after the very very little amount of space she’d given her on Saturday. It was just so much so soon. Reed hadn’t wanted or expected Stella to meet the girls yet, especially not while she was fucking her on the kitchen counter.

 

Dinner? Maybe. In passing? Sure. Fully clothed? Absolutely. Saturday’s fiasco was definitely not what she'd had in mind.

 

Not that she's  _ upset _ that Stella’s met them. No, she’s not upset. But they just took to her so fast…

 

Probably best not to dwell on it obsessively though. Every time Reed catches herself doing so, her chest constricts with a heavy kind of anxiety. Maybe she’s just afraid of things moving too quickly and having the girls end up hurt. And maybe she’s afraid of things moving too quickly and having herself end up hurt. 

 

Either way, space is usually better than not. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, isn’t that what they always say? So not calling her tonight is probably for the best. It has to be.

 

And truth be told, Reed worries that she’s about to repeat the same mistakes all over again. That she’s just found dry land only to throw herself back into the swelling tide. She can already feel parts of herself disappearing, sandcastles dissolving bit by bit, different parts than last time but the principal is still the same. It’s easier to let herself drift out to sea than swim to shore. 

 

Especially when the riptide is Stella’s kiss, and the blue of her gaze lures even the most skilled explorers to deep dive for sunken treasure. Reed’s seen the gold glimmering there. She knows its pull.  

 

Back in Belfast, before all of this had started, she’d imagined being with Stella. When things between them were left to shared sorrows over burnt coffee, the occasional lasting look, the unassuming brush of her hand. Even then, she'd known that Stella might be consuming, might be the kind of person she could get lost in. It’s not terribly surprising.

 

But she’s never known the absolute sensation of wanting to drown. 

 

That’s not what she’d wanted in all of this. It wasn’t the point.

 

So she’s making an effort not to think about her tonight and instead, she’s going to dedicate herself to  _ the point _ . Making this life for herself and nobody else. Well, aside from the girls, of course. Making this life for them and making it good. Right now she’s making her office good, hanging some plants and unboxing seemingly hundreds of books. How’d she end up with so many?

 

Every other office space she’s ever had felt unnaturally sterile and bleak; it comes with the territory for most STEM jobs. But she wants this one to be a departure from all that. Clean but cozy, maybe even a little inspiring. Thankfully, it’s well on its way. She’s already set up a lamp, thrown down a rug and laid out the art she’ll hang on the corresponding walls. It’s looking pretty damn good actually, she might even be proud of herself when she’s done. Interior decorating is truly not her forte.

 

And then her phone rings interrupting the progress, loud and buzzing against the dark wood of her desk, which is miraculously polished. Probably the first and last time it’ll ever see a shine like that. She sets aside the books she’s unloading to flip it over and see if Lydia’s falling back on her kind gesture. But then her heart beats a little too fast because it’s not Lydia at all.

 

It’s Stella. 

 

And fuck, she hates how excited she is to see her name.

 

A grip. She really needs to get one. 

 

But this is fine, truly it’s fine. It’s a fucking phone call, she knows how to handle a phone call without sounding certifiable. Even if her mind’s fallen down any number of rabbit holes, she can talk on the phone like a grown ass woman. She just needs to answer it before it goes to voicemail instead of staring at it. That’d be good.

 

“Hello?” she answers. And she’s going for casual, like maybe she hasn’t overanalyzed everything over the past two days and run her thoughts into the proverbial dumpster. 

 

“Hi.” Stella’s voice comes over the line, cozy like cashmere and with so much warmth packed into such a small word. Does Stella’s voice always sound that comforting or is Reed just projecting? “I hope it’s not too late.”

 

“No, I’m still at work actually,” she replies, returning to the box of books. She needs a distraction to get this fidgety energy out of her body. “Lyd came home early so I’m setting up shop. Emptying boxes, very thrilling.”

 

Stella hums a laugh. “Sounds terribly thrilling, actually.”

 

That tugs at something under Reed’s ribcage. The spot that liquefies every time she sees Stella smile or hears her laugh, even softly like just now. And maybe Reed should google how to get over a crush, or an infatuation, or whatever the hell this is because it’s kind of making her insane. 

 

Instead, she clears her throat and fumbles with the book she’s holding. It’s kind of difficult to be tactful when she’s barely stringing two words together and Stella sounds so at ease. Apparently the space had been a good idea. Either that or Stella’s indifferent, maybe she just doesn’t care. Does Reed want her to care? If she flatout _ just didn’t care _ , she wouldn’t be calling.

 

Reed mentally slaps herself. Stella’s probably just calling to talk about her day - it’s Monday, after all. The big day. And Reed needs to chill the fuck out because she’s making everything about herself. 

 

“How was work?” she finally asks, abandoning the books and walking over to the window. “First full day back…”

 

“It’s um - it’s been fine,” Stella says and it brings Reed’s spiraling thoughts to a halt, because there’s something significantly less serene about her voice when she says it. “Good for the most part,” she continues, and then there’s a pause where Reed tries to pinpoint what’s so strange about the way she sounds. “Listen, feel free to say no but would you mind if I stopped by?”

 

“UCL?”

 

“I’ve been wanting to see it. If you’re not too busy.”   
  


Well, that’s not what she’d expected.

 

Reed’s over here two seconds from losing her mind and Stella wants to stop by. See, the phone’s one thing - you can only asses so much over the phone. But what if Stella comes over and immediately senses how unhinged Reed’s become? Okay, maybe not  _ unhinged _ , but she’s certainly not fully hinged either.

 

God, she’s just been in such a weird mood since Saturday. Maybe she needs another day or two to get over it. People process things differently and that’s okay. Maybe she just needs more time.

 

“I’m not quite set up yet," she replies a little guardedly. “Everything’s a bit messy.”

 

“You know I don’t care about that,” Stella says and it immediately makes Reed feel like a jerk for her bullshit ‘messy’ excuse. Why had she even said that? Why is she behaving like this? Of course she wants to see her. Apparently fear turns her into an anxious asshole. “But if you’re caught up, I can come by another-”

 

“No, come,” she says a little too quickly, trying to bandage over her initial response. “Drop by tonight.” Then there’s silence as Reed picks at her fingernail, waiting to see how transparent she’s just been.

 

“It won’t be but a minute,” Stella says gingerly, as if to reassure Reed that her evening’s not completely lost.  _ Plenty of time for more organizing _ . It’s so sweet that Reed almost hates herself. She’s being completely irrational, which just might ruin whatever’s happening between them if she keeps it up. 

 

“You can stay longer than a minute.”   
  


“You’re sure?”

 

“Yes.” Reed says smiling into the phone, momentarily taken over by that gooey feeling in her middle. “Just, uh, just call me when you get here.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Reed quickly ends the call and turns from the window, hands flying into her hair.  _ Okay, get this out of your system _ . No more self-sabotaging. Self-affirming thoughts only. Otherwise, she’ll keep letting this snowball inside her, building the groundwork for more nonexistent problems. And Reed’s better than that, she’s better than all of this. She’s gotten herself out of worse cognitive circles than this, she’s going to be fine. 

 

Everything’s going to be fine.

 

Stella’s just dropping by to see her office. And to see her. 

 

It’s fine.

 

She opens her eyes and evaluates the room. Shit, it’s kind of a wreck. Sure, she’s made progress but there’s still boxes laying open and things spilling into different corners of the room. If Stella’s going to see it, Reed should at least try to condense the mayhem. Which is good, tasks are good to keep her mind on track. 

 

So she stacks a few of the boxes and piles some folders, she tries to create order. And it works for the most part. Looking around a second time, it’s not too bad. At least it’s not embarrassing. 

 

Then there’s the tell-tale buzz from her phone and a text that says “Here.”

 

Alright, she’s feeling much better. She can do this. She can be sensible and sane because surprisingly enough, she happens to be both those things. Most hours of the day anyway. These next few minutes don’t have to be any different.

 

She tries to ignore the way her stomach tells her otherwise.

 

Taking a deep breath, she walks into the hallway and sees Stella striding towards her. Coat fluttering around her legs and heels echoing as she goes. She’s locked into her phone, sifting through emails or something, so Reed takes a moment to remain unnoticed and let herself look. Everything goes mystically still at the sight of her, just the image of her walking can do that. It’s strangely calming.

 

She’s just so fucking beautiful.

 

God, it’s almost absurd.

 

And then Stella looks up and smiles, one of those Stella smiles, the ones that aren’t really there but still manage to feel like the sun. This was a good decision, letting Stella come by. All of those compulsive anxieties untangle in her nearness. 

 

“Hey,” Reed says approaching her. The least she can do is meet her halfway after openly gawking.

 

“Hi,” Stella says, pocketing her phone and coming closer. Reed finds herself closer to center with each step and thank god there’s this cure for self-inflicted hysteria. 

 

And it feels natural for Reed to lean in and greet her with a hug. That is until Stella places her lips firmly against Reed’s in a chaste kiss, one that says ‘hello,’ the sort you barely notice after years of being with someone. But Reed hasn’t been with Stella for years so it catches her by surprise. And she barely has time to register it before Stella pulls back, looking at her nonchalantly.

 

“Sorry for dropping in, I just wanted to see you.”

 

“I’m glad,” Reed manages to get out, her stomach squirming, this time with butterflies instead of panic. “Stop apologizing, I want to show you around.”

 

With that, Reed pulls at Stella’s fingers, holding onto them loosely as she leads her back down the hall. It’s just a few paces until they arrive at her office so she lets go with a gentle squeeze and stands back, letting the door swing open for Stella to walk inside.

 

“This is it,” she says hanging back. “Not very big but it’ll do.”

 

Stella wanders in, curiously peeking around at the sparse decor throughout the room, pretty head drifting this way and that like a roaming satellite. Evident by her recent spell of hallway stalling, Reed could easily watch Stella do just about anything and remain entranced for hours. Watching her fill a room with her presence alone could bring grown men to their knees, she's seen it happen more than once. Puddles of people, shrinking themselves just to make room for the magnitude of her proximity. Often times, Reed finds herself wondering how Stella commands people this way, so effortlessly that it reads unintentional, as if the accidental wave of her hand could summon an army to battle.

 

It probably could. 

 

Reed watches that sceptering hand now, delicate fingers casting shadows along the thick spines of her medical texts. And there's something strikingly sentimental about having her here, perusing the trivial items that Reed deems important enough to surround herself with on a daily basis. Because Stella could be anywhere in the world with any number of people. But she's chosen Reed’s disheveled office space in all of its unfashioned glory, loose paper clips and rogue picture frames to boot.

 

Then Stella smiles from over her shoulder. “Very nice. Different from your old office,” she says neutrally, and Reed has no idea how Stella felt about her old office.

 

“Well, I wanted it to feel more... like me, I guess.”

 

“I like it,” she says, fingertips floating to the desk and eyes passing over the room once more before landing on Reed, all warmth and dauntless spark.

 

It's one of the most unique feelings in the world, having Stella look at her. All of that intensity and reverence aimed solely in her direction. Every time it happens, Reed feels this youthful exhilaration tingle in her toes and spread steadily upward. The kind of rush that comes from passing notes with a grade school crush,  _ Check ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ _ And Reed always checks  _ Yes. _ It’s involuntarily written in the heat of her blush, and the way her dark brown eyes beam back at Stella in the lamplit glow. Of course, Stella probably gets all of her notes checked  _ Yes _ , Reed can’t imagine a creature on earth denying her. But when Stella looks at her, prowling eyes and loaded stares, Reed still feels like the only person she’s ever checked  _ Yes _ back for.

 

“Wanna see the rest?” Reed asks, and it sounds much more flirtatious than she’d intended. Like maybe she's asking a different sort of question entirely.

 

“Okay,” Stella responds with a satisfied smirk, as if maybe she's answering a different question entirely.

 

And then they're walking, heels softly clacking along the abandoned hallways, office left far behind. Having done her homework, Reed tries to be an effective tour guide, supplying tidbits of information that she’s pridefully stored up about the building. Because she is proud to be here, and she’s more excited about this job than she’s been about work in a long time. It feels good to show it off a little. Here and there, small groups of students pass or sit in common areas, quietly studying, paying them no mind. Otherwise the rooms are vacant and Stella goodnaturedly plays the part of tourist for her, ‘Ah’-ing appropriately, the occasional follow-up question.

 

And it’s perfect for the most part, even mildly romantic at times, nothing Reed needed to be so worried about. 

 

That is until Stella starts to slip away, not all at once and not even noticeably at first. One minute she’s there, shoulder bumping playfully into Reed’s and the next, it becomes apparent that she’s miles away. As present and engaged as the empty classrooms they’re passing. And it’s not a big deal, even Stella’s vague interest in the school is flattering enough. It does make Reed wonder though. So many things about Stella make her wonder.

 

Reed spins around to look at her aimless follower as they enter a rather impressive lecture hall. Languidly walking in behind her, Stella’s glancing around at the hundreds of seats that scale up to the very back of the massive room. And Reed should end their little show-and-tell and let her go. It is getting late after all and she doesn’t want to bore Stella completely to tears. 

 

Propping herself up against the professor’s desk at the front of the room, she tells Stella as much, suggests they head back for the evening.

 

To no response.

 

“Stella?”   
  


“Hm?” she says, head swiveling back towards Reed, brows lifted. And Reed can’t help but chuckle at Stella’s innocent stare, as if she hadn’t been blatantly distracted, completely off in her own world.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Of course,” she says as if there were any other answer. “Just looking around.”

 

It’s almost endearing how unaware Stella is to her own absence. Then Reed remembers her tone over the phone, and remembers what it’s like working that kind of job, and suddenly it’s much less endearing.

 

Just because it’s not Reed’s world anymore, doesn’t mean it’s not still Stella’s. It’s a painful world to maneuver day-in and day-out, with so many things that aren’t easy to forget. And Reed remembers trying to draw the line between that world and this world, the world where she and Stella can wander the halls unplagued by monsters.

 

It’s not easy.

 

“You seem a bit elsewhere, that’s all,” she tells her gently. Because Stella doesn’t need to feel bad for being caught up with whatever’s on her mind. And Reed doesn’t want to inflict any more guilt than Stella tackles every day. 

 

But it’s almost like Stella recognizes all the things that Reed doesn’t say. Her eyes slip closed with a self-admonishing shake of her head, a loose blonde curl becoming displaced. “Sorry,” she says. Only it comes out a little broken and suddenly Reed feels very protective. But she stays rooted to the desk because there's nothing worse than being smothered when you're trying to escape yourself. And she waits a moment, gives Stella space to say more or change the subject, either would be fine. But nothing comes.

 

“It’s okay.”

 

Stella opens her eyes and they drift carefully around the floor as she calculates what to say. “Long day,” is all she manages.

 

“I can imagine.”

 

“Yeah…”

 

There’s a lot held up in that  _ yeah _ , a lot more than Reed expected there to be, and it's got so much weight to it that Reed briefly worries for the foundation beneath Stella’s elegant heels. She can practically see it crack under the heft of her exhale. And Reed has to forcibly press her lips together to keep from asking impertinent questions. Because when you’re on the outside looking in, there’s no way to truly grasp these situations. Her husband hadn't understood that. But she does, she's been there too many times. So she lets it be. She doesn’t push Stella to divulge things that are no longer meant for her.

 

And then like a switch, Stella’s features take on a rather unreadable expression, but one that Reed’s surely seen before. Her eyes still hang low, idling somewhere around Reed’s knee caps, and if Reed could just see them, if she could just get a glimpse, maybe she'd know what to say, maybe she'd know how to make this better. But she's not granted the opportunity, not even as Stella comes toward her like a cool ocean breeze tugging at the wisps of her hair. 

 

Stella stops in front of where Reed leans against the desk, and when she finally catches her stare, she knows where she's seen it before. A red leathery booth in Belfast, their lips having just touched in a brisk greeting, some put-on words spinning from Stella’s mouth for the sake of show, before lifting her shoulders as she leaned closer. 

 

“What?” Reed asks coyly because she’s not completely deft, and if memory serves, she knows exactly where Stella’s thoughts have migrated.

 

“You look lovely.”

 

“Thanks,” she says, biting her lip with the vague inclination to call Stella on this particular deflection, to tell her it's okay to wallow if she needs, that sex doesn't have to cover up everything that's uncomfortable. But this is Stella Gibson after all, and when she's this close and looking at you  _ that way _ , Reed finds it impossible to tell her almost anything. “So do you.”

 

“I like this dress,” she says, hands floating to Reed’s hips where she touches the fabric settled against them in worshiping caress. 

 

“It's new.”

 

“It suits you.”

 

Then Reed’s heart jumps into her throat as Stella kisses her, a hesitant brush of those tulip-soft lips against her own. And she returns the gesture, capturing Stella’s small pink mouth with her own. Stella breathes sea salt into the space where their mouths mingle and Reed wants to taste it further, never wants to stop tasting it. Maybe that's the the problem. So she wraps her fingers up in Stella’s sun kissed tendrils, bringing her closer, licking the roof of her mouth in a bold display of want. And Stella's not one to be out done, pressing herself into Reed with matched conviction. 

 

And it’s a baptism, submerging herself in Stella’s kiss. The drag of her teeth along Reed’s lower lip as strong as the tide, the sharp grittiness of sand and shells sinking into her flesh there. All of the danger of a blazing sun burning down onto vast shorelines packed behind the heat of her tongue. Each breath torn from the swelling surf, building for miles only to collapse in on itself. It’s overwhelming in every way that’s good, in every way that’s majestic because something about the ocean is spectacular to behold. 

 

Stella nestles herself into the crux of Reed’s legs, sending them farther apart, and thankfully her dress doesn’t mind. And then Stella’s tearing her mouth away, a shared rush of briny breath gusting from their lungs before her lips latch firmly onto Reed’s neck.  _ Fuck _ . She’s not gentle or soft at Reed’s pulse point, which beats madly just millimeters below. Sucking at the smooth layer of skin, Stella unleashes the force of her arousal on one concentrated spot. It has Reed’s hands slipping into the crevice of Stella’s coat, fingers digging into the curve of her waist, a keen gasp poised at the back of her throat. 

 

Darting out to soothe the tender mark, Stella’s tongue moves swiftly to Reed’s ear, tracing her name there like a stick writing declarations of love in the sand. It sends Reed’s body into a frenzied state of awareness, her hips surging forward against Stella’s. 

 

“Did you like that, professor?” Stella whispers innocently into the wet shell of her ear and Reed might have laughed if not for the distinct sensation of moisture pooling in her underwear at the sound of it.

 

“You're joking,” she still manages to say but there’s no backbone to it. Just seeking hands ebbing over Stella’s expensive clothing as she attempts to find her footing.

 

“Very serious,” Stella says into her neck before hooking her hand under Reed’s thigh and forcing her ass back onto the desk. And it’s seamless, like a practiced move she’s mastered over the years from countless fucks against water-stained woodened surfaces. Then her mouth is swallowing Reed whole again, engulfing her in a torrent of want that pushes most of her sensibilities far beneath the surface of consciousness. Stella places herself intimately back at the juncture between Reed’s legs, calling her under with the press of her pelvic bone. A rhythmic tide washes over her body, already roaring with the need to come as Stella’s hand creeps up the side of her dress finding the lacey strip of fabric hiding there. And Reed breaks their kiss in a fervent rush of realization.

 

“God, Stella what're you doing?” she asks as rationally as she can. Because it definitely feels like they’re about to have sex in a semi public place, a semi public place that also happens to be her workplace. And something about that just feels wrong. In a great sort of way but still wrong, very wrong.

 

“You were so curious about how to keep kids from fucking on your desk,” Stella says huskily, undeterred and rolling herself against Reed’s throbbing core. And how the hell is Reed supposed to say no to that? “Thought some first hand experience might come in handy.” Stella snaps the side of her underwear teasingly as she says it and Reed is beyond tempted to surrender then and there.

 

But then the rest of her more logical senses, the ones that had sunk faster than concrete under the persuasion of Stella’s touch, buoy up alarmingly. Suddenly this room feels like an aquarium instead of some secluded island, open to any unexpectant passerby, fingerprints smudged all over the glass after a full day of regular foot traffic. 

 

“Stella, I work here. What if someone walks in?”

 

“Seems pretty deserted out there.”

 

And she has a point. There's not much of anybody around at this hour. But still, you never know...

 

“If you're not comfortable, I'll stop.”

 

Reed hears the shifted seriousness in Stella’s tone and finds her stormy blue eyes equally steady. And there's no guilt there, no frayed feelings over the idea of stopping whatever's about to unfold, no pissy pout or dejected coldness. They hold each other’s eyes for a long beat, and all Reed sees in Stella is power - the power to continue just as clear as the power to stop. It makes Reed want her that much more.

 

Nobody’s going to walk in.

 

They could.

 

But they won't.

 

Reed moves Stella’s arm, which has retreated questioningly away from from under Reed’s dress, intentionally back up her thigh. An answer. A question. She doesn't drop Stella's eyes as she does it, and the brief flash of understanding that illuminates the choppy waves of her irises feels indescribably rewarding.

 

And then as Stella nimbly tugs down the stretchy lace of Reed’s underwear, she rediscovers that there is something better. Something so much better.

 

An audible hiss escapes Reed’s lips as Stella testingly slips a few fingers through her wetness. Reflexively, Reed finds herself gripping Stella's arm as her body both relaxes and revs up in the same breath. And thankfully the material of her dress is content to take part in their illicit discretions, flexibly shifting as Stella adjusts herself between Reed’s legs. Reed instinctively lets them fall wider, a decision that pays off for her in full.

 

Gracelessly, Reed reaches for the clasp at Stella’s trousers, twisting at them for mere moments before Stella’s small hand wraps around her wrist, pushing it purposely to the side. Eyebrows drawn in confusion, Reed looks at her for an explanation while Stella’s working hand makes an effort to divert her back to breathlessness. A whispered  “shhh” and a searing kiss are all Reed registers before there’s a hand pushing gently at her shoulder, an indication to lean back. So Reed tries to go with the flow, acquiesce to Stella’s commands, and moves her right hand behind her for support. And Stella follows her mouth, capturing it like a game of cat and mouse, and continues using the new angle to her advantage. 

 

All too quickly, Reed feels her body begin to coil, building toward oblivion at lightning speed. Breaking their kiss and pressing her forehead into Stella’s, Reed stills her hand. Only for a moment, catching her breath. And then she’s moving herself against the soft pads of Stella’s fingers again, a bit more disciplined this time, more grounded. 

 

“You should do that more often,” Stella says into her hairline.

 

“Do what?” Reed practically moans into the shared space between them.

 

“Take control,” Stella says, going back to Reed’s ear, grazing it softly as she cranes over her. And the compliment, at least it seems like a compliment, buzzes around the back of Reed’s neck making her feel drunk. Receiving praise of any kind from Stella apparently proved intoxicating. “Take what you want. Make it yours.” Then her tongue swipes playfully into Reed’s ear, producing a sharp inhale and distinct shiver.

 

Volleying between Stella’s encouragement and feeling too turned-on to function, Reed takes Stella’s other hand and places it over her breast, keeping it there while her hips roll more deliberately against Stella’s hand. And Stella hums appreciatively into the tempest of their ragged breathing before reclaiming her mouth.  

 

Moving herself against Stella and against this desk is both ridiculously hot and strangely exerting. The hard surface below, while the stuff that fantasies are made of, stunts the full rotation of her hips and she grinds against it. But she can feel herself climbing already, desperate to shatter like stardust over the current turning powerfully beneath her. Lifting herself up, she moves both hands behind her and meets Stella’s hand in more fluid circles, finally getting the full reward out of each pass. 

 

Soon she feels that familiar sweetness deep inside her body, twisting intimately, filling her everywhere. And she’s so close, so so close. In the heat of passion, she grabs Stella’s wrist and moves her fingers just a bit to the left and  _ goddamn _ , there it is. Just as her thighs begin to clench, muscles going stiff everywhere, her jaw falls open in a wordless sound. And hazily amidst the pleasure that begins to streak up her spine, she catches Stella’s eyes, nearly eclipsed with desire, teeth biting fixedly into her bottom lip.  _ God _ .

 

Reed practically caves in on herself as she lights up from the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair, body going taut, eyelids pressing tight as she rides out the peak of her orgasm. And then she’s gasping, limply holding herself up, complete jello after forcing her vital organs to keep up with her. 

 

Stella’s hand slips from her underwear, a smug smile forming under the thick cloud of arousal surrounding them. Then she’s pulling the fabric of Reed’s dress properly into place, shutting her knees as she steps from between them, as if they hadn’t just completely desecrated this temple of learning, as if they were just having a chat. 

 

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Reed says sitting up and leaning forward over the edge of the desk, still a little slumped. She looks around and surely, they’re still alone. Not that she would have noticed if anyone caught the whole thing on tape, let alone if they’d simply walked in. 

 

“Are you upset about it?” Stella asks, tilting her to the side. 

 

“No.”

 

“Good. Any interest in carrying on elsewhere?”

 

Elsewhere? Reed’s eyes go a little wide and Stella chuckles quietly.

 

“I meant back at my flat,” Stella explains easily, laughing off the idea that Reed momentarily thought she might want to screw in the Student Affairs office next. “That is if you have time, of course.”

 

Reed breathes, calming her heart and thinks to promises she made to herself about finishing her office. Then she thinks about needing to get home and memories of Lydia’s voice trilling, latent with innuendo, sing in her mind. Well, her sister was practically begging her to do this and the girls were probably asleep by now anyway…

 

Her office could wait for another night.

 

“I have time.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies for the delays. I have the next chapter almost fully worked out and am hopeful for a faster update. Thank you to everyone who continually checks in on this story. It means so much that you guys are still enjoying it. We’re definitely about to enter some interesting territory and I would love to know your thoughts.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to @TheRobbinsGang, @JenSchwartz21, @SpookyHadley and @nicole_golding! This chapter contains two flashbacks, one at the top of the chapter and one at the end. I’ve always wanted to explore Stella’s past and whether or not she’s capable of lasting romantic love and/or relationships. I am genuinely terrified to arrive at this part of the story because it’s the beginning of so many things to come. I hope you don’t hate it and I will reiterate that this is still a Stella/Reed fic, so no need to freak out.
> 
> TW: Brief references to suicidal thoughts.

Intermittent raindrops drift down from the night sky, gentle taps of wetness here and there landing on Stella’s shoulder. Innocent reminders that she’s not completely alone. Legs dangling over the lip of her dormitory, she looks out over the glowing city and it lingers, this extraordinary sense of unbeing. Removed from it all. Like maybe she isn’t supposed to be here.

 

At this school. In this city. On this planet.

 

Her entire existence, simply the result of some tragic error. A blip, something inherently wrong masquerading as something right. Years and years ago, somewhere far above her in the vast whirling ether, the star machine must have malfunctioned when it spit her out and kept on spinning. As if mistakes just ‘happen.’ No action required.

 

But consequences always find a way of being met one way or another.

 

Digging her palms into the edge of the gritty rooftop, her gaze shifts to the blackness begging below her feet. It's not that far of a drop, five stories, nothing to shake over. And Stella doesn't shake, heights don't scare her. In fact, she's a bit drawn to them, some morbid curiosity inside her that won't quiet. So she leans forward, just enough to feel her weight shift towards a dangerous balance, that sweet spot between neither here nor there, untouched by the gravity of being tethered to anything at all.

 

Perfectly poised at the edge of the world, all that’s blurry filters into a sharp and grainy point, the immediate clarity of putting on a pair of glasses after going so long without them. Oxygen floods her veins, the lifeblood of this mundane place finally beats around her, and with a stronger pulse pounding at her wrist she sits back into herself, back into the staleness of safety.

 

This happens some days, a numbness so complete that it requires mildly desperate measures.

 

Reading for hours will do that to her. Not always but on occasion. Lost in the details of other people's lives, things have a way of sneaking up on her. And while her mind is free to escape, wander the globe’s infinite colors and shapes, it's also left defenseless against her own forms of espionage. Stealthy thoughts, unwanted memories, bubbling up in the absence of her concentration. And sometimes when she returns from her literary missions abroad, she’s welcomed back to a seized fortress.

 

The fight for control over her own mind is an exhausting one, a battle she's tired of losing. But she just keeps losing. Losing over and over, each defeat more destructive than the last. And each time she begins to feel normal, this ugliness rears up again, worse and more angry than the time before.

 

It makes a person think, _really think_ , and so she contemplates a lot of things. In the most empty corners of her imagination, she forms pictures of the world without her in it. A definitive correction. An end to this cycle.

 

Sometimes, especially on nights like this one, her existence feels that wrong.

 

And then there's a rush of air and the loud creak of a heavy door being forced open.

 

_Fuck._

 

Students technically aren't allowed up here, a fact that Stella has chosen to overlook more than once. It's a pointless rule but a useful one, ensuring a certain level of privacy from her less adventurous peers. Occasionally she’ll find herself in a crowded classroom or walking down a bustling street, daydreaming of this view, wistful for the peace of it. But during these retreats, no one's ever come looking for her or popped up to police the area. Until now.

 

She just wants to be left alone.

 

So Stella decides to stay still and stare at her shoes, hopefully she'll go unnoticed like everything else in the world does.

 

But then there's the light sound of footsteps drawing nearer and she knows that it’s useless. Whoever-they-are is coming over and they'll tell her she needs to go, maybe they'll even reprimand her. With stiff shoulders, she grips the roof and looks down, resigning herself to her fate, quietly sacrificing her silence to the stars. And as the shuffling sound stops beside her, Stella chances a look, eyes flickering to the right. One leg and then another, her imposing companion slips easily over the flimsy bars - the ones creating a cautionary but ineffective perimeter around the building - and settles an arm’s length away from her. She registers a sweeping wave of auburn and a slim framework swimming beneath an oversized sweater, a girl her age. Someone from the building.

 

“Come to jump?”

 

Eyes darting back to the girl beside her, Stella’s brow halts into a hard line, an accusatory question wetly forming there. Did she really just ask her that? As if someone can’t simply come to the roof for space? There has to be some suicidal subtext to validate her presence here?

 

Is she really that obvious?

 

And then the girl knowingly smiles and it's enough to make Stella realize that it was just a joke. There’s a slight shake of her head, red hair catching the light as it moves, and Stella feels incredibly stupid. In a vain attempt to remain guarded, she’s managed to lay all her cards on the table, the ones cut from her most protected spot.

 

Intelligent thing to do.

 

Shit.

 

“Don't worry, me too,” she continues, leaning briefly away from Stella and rummaging through her pockets; she pulls out a rolled cigarette. Fire igniting quickly at her fingers, she lights it and then exhales smoke more slowly than Stella’s ever seen someone manage, as if every single bad thing that's ever happened could be exhaled along with it. Catharsis in motion. And then she's looking at Stella. Catching her stare, she offers her the cigarette.

 

Hm, not cigarette.

 

The smoke curls up into her nose and it's fragrant, decidedly not a cigarette at all, and Stella's never smoked pot before. It's been offered here and there - always the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong person. But tonight, she’s five stories up with nothing to lose, most people might argue there’s no better place and time than that. Then again, Stella’s not most people.

 

“I don't bite.”

 

There's something about the way she says it, alluring like a far off light at the end of foggy path. Stella flits her eyes up from the joint and that's when she's afforded a better look at her. Even in the dark with torrid night blustering above them, Stella can see that she's beautiful. It’s the kind of beautiful that’s confusing because she’s not sure she’s ever seen it before. The kind you might see passing through a museum, carved into marble. The kind that warrants pause and dedication because an artist designed a face so reverent that you might be tempted to pray.

 

And Stella doesn’t pray.

 

The mysterious marble girl just looks at her expectantly, that alluring sparkle flashing across her eyes, and motions to the not-cigarette with its smoldering tip. Stella opens her mouth to say ‘no’ while her hand moves to take it, and suddenly she’s got the butt of it against her lips. Decision made. Even if Stella’s not sure when she made it. Dragging heat into her lungs, it feels good until her throat’s on fire and she’s coughing. A soft hand settles against her shoulder while she gasps for breath, steadying her in the wake of their precarious position. Eyes watering, she hands back the fucking not-cigarette feeling even stupider than she had just moments ago.

 

“Haven’t you ever smoked before?”

 

Still sputtering up small puffs of smoke, Stella croaks out a slightly defensive, “Not that.”

 

“How do you stay sane?”

 

Stella takes a deep breath, her chest tight from the trauma, and then smiles a little at the question. “I don’t.”

 

Marble girl laughs, a humorless sort of thing followed by a defeated, “Yeah.” It makes Stella’s head turn and as she watches her take another hit, she notices splotchy red patches under her puffy eyes, obvious signs of crying too hard. And then Stella thinks back to her first question.

 

_Come to jump?_

 

 _Don’t worry, me too_.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

It’s out of her mouth before she can think to stop herself, just like taking the joint. And maybe she should spend less time stopping herself because when the neighboring pair of watery irises land on hers, there’s a sort of recognition there. Startling and intense, Stella’s not sure she’s ever witnessed a stranger, or anyone for that matter, see her so clearly.

 

“Are any of us?”

 

No, not at all. What a horrifying relief to hear someone say it out loud. Stella’s spent days, years even, contemplating the exact same question, yet now that it’s posed directly to her, she doesn’t know what to say. Words seem inadequate. Nevertheless, she watches her unspoken answer register across the dark blue eyes shining back at her.

 

“Didn’t know anybody else knew how to get up here,” her companion changes the subject. Looking out over the spotted skyline, she sounds equally irritated and impressed by it.

 

“Neither did I.”

 

Holding the joint out between them like an offering, a sly smile plays at her lips. “Second attempt?”

 

Assessing it skeptically, Stella’s not sure if she wants to. But at the same time, she feels a strange camaraderie between them, an immediate sort of loyalty born from the same hurt, the same fucked up thoughts and vulnerabilities. The same masochistic needs. So Stella pinches it with two fingers and brings it to her lips as a full-blown smile lights up marble girl’s pretty face.

 

Stella notices that she has freckles.

 

“Take a smaller pull and hold it in until you have to let it out,” she explains. “Then breathe out slow.”

 

Stella nods and tries to follow directions. She’s a very good student after all, she has a reputation to uphold. Her chest still burns as she inhales, taking it easy before she inevitably starts coughing again. At least it’s less serious and far less embarrassing this time.

 

“Good job,” the girl says, amused laughter coloring her voice as she retrieves the quickly dwindling joint between her delicate fingers. Stella feels inexplicably proud and it's an immediately addictive feeling, this stranger’s easy praise hitting her bloodstream faster than the THC. Maybe if it could happen again, she wouldn't need drugs at all.

 

“So what _actually_ brings you up here?” she questions, pulling Stella from her thoughts. What actually brings her up here? _Besides jumping_.

 

As much as Stella tends to isolate herself, sometimes physical distance is still the only thing that actually helps. She could say that. It seems like marble girl would understand - she's found her own way up here after all. But surely there's a more appropriate answer, something less revealing, equally truthful. Stella's already let too much of herself go this evening.

 

“To think, I suppose,” she settles on.

 

There's a long pause that sits between them.

 

“Thinking sounds like a terrible idea.”

 

Stella's unable to refrain from staring as she watches a single tear jump down her neighbor’s freckled cheek, a soft stream of smoke whispered from her tongue as she flicks the dead joint carelessly from the roof. And there's a great deal of resignation in it, a hard acceptance that unsettles Stella's bones. Because everything about this person feels so familiar, like cracking open a book only to realize that you’ve read it before, the intimacy of the words echoing across her soul.

 

Stella doesn't need to return the question to know her answer.

 

Then her eyes are back, looking Stella over, that small smile at the expressive line of her lips. And she doesn't look like she's analyzing Stella nearly as much as Stella’s analyzing her. No, this girl carries a formidable sort of confidence that makes Stella think she's had her figured out from the start. It leaves her somewhere between intrigued, aroused, and terrified. A fucked up combination if she’s ever heard one. And as marble girl looks at her, it's like she knows all of Stella’s secrets, including this one.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Stella.”

 

“That’s a beautiful name,” she says softly and Stella feels herself flush because there it is again, that thing that makes her think drugs are overrated.

 

“What’s yours?”

  
  
“Gwen.”

 

* * *

 

Stella fiddles in the kitchen. Wiping down the counters, a pair of rubber gloves protecting her hands; she’s been at work cleaning for an hour or so.

 

Some people compulsively clean when they’re overwrought, too strung out to focus, taking control of their surroundings when they cannot take control of their thoughts. But Stella is not one of those people, not all the time at least. It’s hit or miss with her. Swimming, athletic exertion paired with physical exhaustion, tends to be a more effective outlet for her brand of demon. And things around her flat never stray far enough to warrant the work of emotional cleaning.

 

This morning however is a hit, and she’s been spraying everything with bleach. She’s done a few things since she’s been home, tidying up, nothing drastic. But the place could use a proper detox, a fresh start. And so could she.

 

It’s been a hell of a week.

 

She might have expected it to be difficult, a godsend with a few contingent hardships. And she’s accustomed to hardships, jumping through hoops, digging herself out of trouble. However pulling herself through the weight of emotions buried twenty-years-deep wasn’t part of the plan.

 

And Gwen hasn’t called. Maybe she never will.

 

Stella could probably write off the entire experience as a psychotic break brought on by stress if it weren’t for her son’s case, which was proving very real. Tuesday morning she’d received a particularly disturbing call from Westfield regarding Dean Parker’s suspected involvement in the gang rape of a young girl. It didn’t look promising for him, they had a great deal of circumstantial evidence implicating his presence at the scene. His friends were crumbling like old brick, turning on each other, hoping to save themselves. There wouldn’t be much for Stella to do regarding Gwen’s fear, the only conscionable option was to tell her the truth, ask her to cooperate with the investigation.

 

If she ever calls.

 

The next step she’d taken was running background checks on each of them. It felt absurd. _Gwen Parker._ Simultaneously stunned by her need to do so and by her ability to do so, Stella had run her maiden name through the system countless times when she’d started only to be met with nothing. Now here they were, the answers she’d so often sought at her fingertips. But fortunately there wasn’t much there, a domestic disturbance on record about four years ago accompanied by a pathetic excuse for a report, almost nothing detailed from the attending officer. Yet Stella remembers enough about the couple, watered and fed by her imagination, garnished by her knowledge of abusive households, the images she conjures are almost enough to make her wish she’d never gone looking.

 

At night, these unfortunate scenarios curl up comfortably beside her, sidling up to her still-bruised ribs as Stella’s subconscious plays tricks on her. Because when she dreams, she dreams of the past that she knows and of the past that she doesn’t. She dreams of the black flecks left over from runny mascara, doors locked in fear and in anger, the deep muscular heaven from the best orgasm she’s ever had. Then she dreams of the varying shades of indigo and black, melted together like mixed paint on a paper plate, all found in even the smallest bruises. And she dreams of Gwen raising her children, the sounds of screaming and the brokenness that she still sees in her after all these years. She writes them down, puts them away. But they don’t stay away.

 

As the chemical smell of bleach burns her nostrils, elbows sore from scrubbing, Stella wonders how much manual labor it will take to erase them.

 

This sort of thing is not unfamiliar. Stella used to dream about Gwen a lifetime ago, back when everything was raw and she was used to it. She’s grown a lot since then, picked up a few things, and she’s stronger now, more adept at protecting herself than she had been in her youth. Except standing alone in her kitchen right now, it feels like she’s 18 again, exposed and more naive than she’d ever been before, even all those years ago.

 

Sighing, she stops and evaluates her work.

 

This isn’t helping.

 

She peels the gloves from her hands, the rubbery material snapping as it’s pulled away, and wonders how she’ll shake this before Reed comes by.

 

Following their last evening together, Stella has only spoken to Reed once or twice over the phone. Most of this week’s energy has been dedicated to damage control. Her expectedly bumpy return to work coupled with the resurgence of everything that was once the most beautiful, horrible, and intense experience she’d ever known. It’s left her drained and unsteady. But seeing Reed might be good for her, she reasons. Being with her affords Stella a soul settling calm that she tries very hard not to question.

 

Unfortunately, it’s her job to question everything.

 

Above all, Stella questions why she allows herself to keep seeing her. It’s utterly selfish because it won’t end well, it never does. Certain people are cut out for intimate relationships and certain people are not, and Stella is most certainly the latter. A more selfless person would recognize that and keep the situation from escalating. It’s what Stella’s always done in the past, distanced herself, found the strength to let it go - if there’d ever been anything to hold onto in the first place. And yet there’s something about Reed that Stella finds inexplicably difficult to set free, something very much worth holding onto.

 

She also craves her nearness so consistently that it’s borderline maddening, perplexing, and aggravating to the point of frustration. It’s so unlike her, so outside the realm of Stella’s usual behavior that she has no idea how to handle it. So she tries to ignore it. She pushes it aside. And of course that does nothing but fuel its persistence.

 

So when Reed calls at the end of a shit day, Stella makes plans for her to come over, because the limit for what she can take is quickly approaching its breaking point. She’s already exhausted so much of her willpower on other things, dangers of her own making, ones she’s not proud of but tends to nonetheless.

 

She lets herself have this.

 

With a sigh, she finishes up and stores away her cleaning supplies. She needs to start getting ready. Half-heartedly tackling the stairs, she decides to put a particular effort into her appearance for today. If she’s going to have one vice, she’s going to make sure it’s completely her’s. So leafing through her collection of soft sweaters and silky tops, she wonders which one Reed will appreciate most.

 

Then the phone rings.

 

It’s probably Reed on her way over, curious as to what their actual plans for the day are… Stella wishes she could entertain thoughts that don’t completely revolve around removing whatever well-fitted blouse Reed might like immediately upon arrival. It’s immature to be so obsessed with bedding her, but acknowledging that doesn’t make it any easier to stop. And regardless of the fact that she doesn’t have plans, she needs to at least feign them, answer the phone and suggest something besides fucking the afternoon away. The adult thing to do.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Bad news,” Reed responds by way of introduction, and she sounds slightly out of breath like maybe she’s bustling around her flat in a hurry.

 

“Oh?”

 

“The girls’ play date just fell through,” she explains and then there’s definitely some disastrous background clatter, the sound of something heavy tumbling into something else. And then there’s Reed’s voice again, fast paced and tense, “Apparently Tara’s running a fever so I’m going to have to keep them today. I know I’m supposed to be over shortly but I don’t really have a back up-”

 

“Bring them.”

 

It’s out of her mouth before she can stop it. And she’s not sure when exactly this thought sparked to life over the last few seconds, let alone processed enough to make it past her vocal chords, but there it is. _Bring them_. As she registers what she’s said, she’s not upset about it, perhaps a bit baffled, but content enough with the idea.

 

The last time she’d spent the afternoon with Reed and her girls, she’d rather enjoyed herself, felt somehow lighter than she had in ages. That is until the beautiful cloud of distraction evaporated enough to make room for the telltale regret that always follows indiscretions like these. Seemingly harmless ones that end up quite the opposite.

 

Now faced with a similar choice, spending the afternoon in the company of three instead of completely on her own, left to her own devices… She’s not sure she has the strength to do the right thing and retract her offer.

 

“What?” Reed asks, breaking through the stunned silence.

 

“Bring them,” Stella reiterates casually, as if she doesn’t hate herself for saying it, as if she doesn’t hate herself for wanting them there. “The girls, bring them. I don’t mind.”

 

“Stella…”

 

“What?”

 

“I…” Reed falters, starting and stopping her next thought so many times that she eventually lands on, “I don’t know.”

 

“I’m fully capable of behaving myself.”

 

“No. It’s just,” she says frustratedly and there’s a force behind her tone that peaks Stella’s attention because Reed doesn’t sound angry, but she doesn’t sound _not_ angry. And maybe they’ve both silently and separately decided that it’s best for Stella not to spend time with her children, a reasonable conclusion. Even if the mere thought of it leaves Stella simultaneously relieved and devastated in equal measure. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

 

“Do what exactly?”

 

“Spend time with them.”

 

_Ding, ding, ding._

 

“Do you not want me spending time with them?” And there it is again, words spilling out of her mouth before she can stop them. At least she doesn’t sound pissy. Just curious. Because really, she could have predicted this whole thing. 

“That’s not what I said,” Reed says and it’s much softer this time.

 

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

 

“Listen,” she starts off with a weighty sigh. “I’m a mum and that’s hard sometimes with this sort of thing. But you don’t need to deal with it. We can reschedule…”

 

“This sort of thing…” Stella says slowly, pointedly, because she wonders what exactly ‘this sort of thing’ is to Reed, she wonders what it is to herself, and the need to self-inflict pain has always been too strong.

 

“I don’t want to burden you,” Reed responds definitively, ignoring Stella’s unasked question, which is probably for the best if Stella has any hope of seeing her today.

 

“You’re not. Debating it further won’t change that,” Stella says logically despite this being a rather illogical conversation. Then she can’t resist following up with a poignant, “Unless there’s something else.”

 

“No,” she says quietly, “There’s not.”

 

“Well then.”

 

“I…” Reed sighs knowing they’ve come to an impasse. “If you’re sure.”

 

“I am,” Stella promises and she wishes it weren’t a lie. “Are you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Alright. We’ll be over in a bit then.”

 

* * *

 

“Hi!” Charlotte says flinging herself through the door and around Stella’s waist before she’s even had the opportunity to greet them.

 

“Hello,” Stella says, awkwardly trying to correct her balance, hand still attached to the door.

 

“Charlotte,” Reed scolds from the doorstep, an exasperated crinkle at her brow. But then Charlotte’s rambling about the doll in her hand, still clutched around Stella’s legs. Stella smiles down at her and is met with a beautiful pair of honey brown eyes beaming back. For a fleeting moment, it puts several pieces of her heart right, a warmth aching briefly through her chest before it’s vanquished, gone. God, this was a bad idea. “Charlotte, let go of Stella and thank her properly for having us.”

 

“Thanks!” she exclaims hopping away.

 

“You’re welcome,” Stella says and then her eyes land on Jane, who’s waiting patiently with her mother over the threshold, observing quietly. “Hello, Jane.”

 

“Hi,” she says and it’s almost a shy thing but then she’s pulling at her sister, moving them further inside toward the living room.

 

And last but not least there’s Reed, eyes worriedly skittering from her children up to Stella, large glassy orbs so similar to the ones she’d just been looking at, but with something more fragile floating in them. A smile blossoms hesitantly across her lips, perhaps in an effort to disguise the anxiousness practically vibrating around her. Smiling back, Stella takes a moment to appreciate the sight of her standing there, comfortable and informally dressed on her doorstep. Under her affectionate appraisal, Stella notices Reed visibly relax, tense shoulders falling more naturally into place. Stella’s indescribably glad for it. And then Reed’s blushing demurely, in the way that she tends to blush under Stella’s stare. And maybe this wasn’t such a bad decision after all, maybe it’s a very good decision.

 

Almost immediately Stella realizes that she wants to kiss her.

 

Instead, she behaves like she promised she would and steps back a bit, an offer for Reed to come inside. Reed holds her gaze as she follows in the direction of her children, lips lifting into a smirk.

 

“We brought _Titanic_.”

 

Stella raises a perfectly amused eyebrow in her direction.

 

“Oh, Stella you’re going to absolutely love it!” Jane proclaims from the living room, and such a declarative statement from from such a small person is exactly the kind of pure-hearted amusement she’d needed.

 

Just like that, Stella finds enough air in her lungs for a full even breath, deep exhale and all.

 

An hour or two later, she finds herself doing it again, legs tucked up onto the couch and cradling a cup of tea. Stella breathes in its steamy heat while Reed cradles her youngest daughter, nestled at the other end of the couch. Cuddled up next to her mother, Charlotte absentmindedly styles her doll’s hair while watching the movie as Jane sprawls across the floor, somehow coloring even though her eyes remain glued to the screen.

 

It’s very strange. A comfortable strange, but still strange nonetheless.

 

Stella’s not used to finding herself in quiet moments surrounded by other people. But this is a decidedly quiet moment surrounded by Reed and her children. The strains of James Horner waft around them, a serene cocoon of protection, an escape from the confines of reality. Because this very much feels like someone else’s reality instead of her’s. Then again, her entire week seems to have taken place in an alternate universe where ghosts walk freely and time jumps backwards. Perhaps this alternate reality includes cozied children and soothing moments sat in front of her television.

 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice screams that this isn’t natural. There must be something wrong, these sorts of moments aren’t meant for her.

 

Her thoughts reel back to Reed’s comments over the phone earlier. _This sort of thing_ . What was this sort of thing? This thing where they see each other sometimes and fuck other times and Stella watches _Titanic_ with her children on a dreary Saturday afternoon. It’s the sort of thing that Stella stays away from; the sort of thing that she hasn’t let herself accidentally fall into in years. It’s the sort of thing that people want to label, the sort of thing people put in boxes marked with a Sharpie, bold letters, capital letters, descriptors. _Here’s what’s in this box_.

 

Stella doesn’t like boxes, especially not when she’s in them.

 

Being with Reed doesn’t feel like a box. But even as the thought manifests itself into a beautiful excuse, Stella knows it’s naive. Everybody wants something sooner or later, even people who claim to want nothing eventually ask for everything. Reed might think she’s different and Stella might think so too, but she won’t be in the end. No one ever is.

 

It might not be such a glaring problem but everything about _this sort of thing_ , everything about the trajectory of it conjures up pictures for Stella. Images of Reed knocking at her door one day, worn down and confused with that fucking Sharpie in her hand, eyes pleading. ‘What’s in this box?’ Her watery brown eyes drowning in hurt, painful words sharp on her tongue.

 

Of course, there are alternate pictures that flash before Stella. Scenes of Stella’s mouth hot and rough and wet against Reed’s, scenes where the box gets recycled and where the Sharpie gets used to color in scuff marks, otherwise forgotten in some miscellaneous drawer. But it’s an unlikely portrait. Possible. But unlikely.

 

Maybe in this alternate reality, it could happen.

 

This was definitely a bad idea.

 

And then something jolts at the other end of the couch, Charlotte averting her gaze from the movie, hands covering her eyes. Having zoned out for the last ten minutes or so, Stella checks back in with the film to find Kate Winslet proudly nude, laid out artfully across the screen.

 

“I’m not supposed to watch this part,” Charlotte whispers to her.

 

Stella bites back a smile and catches Reed rolling her eyes, suppressing a smile of her own. “She’s taken to censoring herself,” Reed explains with a shake of her head. “No one’s ever told you that you’re not allowed to watch this part.”

 

Charlotte simply clamps her hands tighter over her eyes and Reed gives Stella a rather helpless look. Then Jane’s turning around uncomfortably away from the movie and asking if they can have popcorn. God, Stella forgot how foolishly awkward being a young person could be. But she sets her mug down all the same and tells them she’ll see what they have.

 

“Is it over,” Charlotte asks, dramatically peeking around her fingers as Stella sets off toward the kitchen.

 

Opening her kitchen pantry isn’t a terribly exciting venture, she’s not much for keeping food in house. But there are some essentials lying around, collecting dust on the highest shelves. Popcorn though, she’s not so sure. She’s almost positive she’d seen it sometime within the last two years... A tired old box shoved behind something or other.

 

 _Ah, there it is_.

 

She spots it and forces open the papery sides, reaching in to grab a single plastic-encased bag. Feeling appropriately victorious, she congratulates herself on not being so far removed from the rest of society that she can’t satisfy children with a bag of popcorn.

 

“Find anything?” Reed’s voice comes from somewhere behind her. It’s the voice she uses when they’re alone together, warm like a hearth on Christmas Day, and it makes Stella’s insides hurt.

 

Emerging from the pantry, Stella flashes the bag smugly in Reed’s direction, a little gloating in light of her success.

 

“I’m shocked,” Reed teases, notes of flirtatiousness sparkling in her tone accompanied by genuine surprise that anything had surfaced at all. And then she’s walking, rounding the kitchen island, a hand trailing wistfully over its bleached-clean surface. Stella watches Reed approach with intent, the sort of intent that Stella had sworn off since the moment she invited the girls to come along. But then Reed’s glancing quickly over her shoulder and before Stella can fully appreciate what’s happening, Reed’s lips are against hers.

 

It’s a soft thing, not properly chaste but accordingly restrained, a gentle ‘hello’ carrying the weight and longing of someone who might want to say more. Stella exhales into the space where their mouths meet, pleasantly caught off guard by the sudden display of affection. And then Reed pulls away, a painfully slow and regretful parting before she takes a step back, putting an appropriate amount of distance between them once more.

 

Stella blinks and notices that proud smirk that Reed wears so charmingly. It’s the one that tilts playfully across her lips anytime she surprises Stella, unable to help herself from grinning over it. And Stella loves seeing it on her, finds it almost irresistibly attractive. It’s drastically unfair considering two small somebodies sitting patiently in the other room. Then as Stella coyly stares her down, she decides that ‘drastically unfair’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.    

 

“Feeling bold with your children one room over?”

 

Reed complacently looks her over with a nonchalant lift of her shoulder as if it were nothing.

 

“They’re far too entranced by some steamed glass to be bothered,” she explains and Stella clicks her tongue knowingly. “It’s not exactly age appropriate, I know.”

 

“I’m not judging, please,” Stella assures her, ripping the plastic away from the popcorn bag, setting her mind on a task far away from thoughts of Reed’s mouth. But then her cell phone buzzes a few feet away and maybe she’s been saved by the bell. Handing the bag to Reed, who politely accepts the tradeoff, Stella reaches for her phone lying on the nearby counter and it’s an unidentified number, probably work-related.

 

“Hello?” she answers leaning back against the kitchen island. For the first time in quite awhile, she actually hopes that she won’t be called into the office.

 

“Stella?”

 

And there it is again, that sound she hears in her more tortured dreams.

 

 _Stella_.

 

Gwen.

 

Her voice comes quiet and timid over the line as if she’s afraid of being heard - probably for good reason. Stella wishes her heart didn’t immediately plummet through her chest cavity down into her stomach upon hearing it. But some things always stay the same.

 

“Yes,” she says, inadvertently squaring her shoulders towards the window, away from Reed pressing buttons on the microwave.

 

“It’s Gwen,” she says as if Stella couldn’t deduce that from the moment she uttered her name. As if she hasn’t imagined this scenario or countless others time and time again. As if the memory of who she once was doesn’t come rushing forward at the sound of it. “One of the officers, um, gave me your number, at least I assumed it was your number. There was an S...”

 

“Yes, I asked him to.”

 

“I’m glad,” she says genuinely. So genuinely that Stella almost forgets the conflicting anger and hurt bubbling up inside her.

 

It’s dangerous how quickly she can make her forget those things.

 

“I really needed-” Gwen begins before going wobbly, her emotions instantly getting the better of her. That universe-bending deja vu floods Stella’s body again, everything heightened, everything aware. A cold heat breaks out over the top of her scalp and drips down her neck. How odd. How familiar. And then Stella hears her take a bolstering breath. “I really feel like I could use your help,” she tries again, quickly this time like maybe the pacing will ease the discomfort of asking. “Would you mind grabbing coffee with me tomorrow?”

 

Silence.

  
Utter silence.

 

Except for the mechanical hum of the microwave accompanied by occasional bursts of sound, _POP_ , kernels shotgunning off the sides of the bag, exploding into something new.

 

Just on the outskirts of her peripheral view, Stella sees Reed adjust her weight as she stands nearby. It’s obvious even from this barely visible movement that she’s trying to avoid being intrusive. But Stella can feel it in her muscles, can sense it in the way her body leans against the counter, that her entire being has gone slightly rigid. So of course Reed would notice. She’s standing right there through no fault of her own, bearing witness to a conversation that perhaps shouldn’t be taking place.

 

Stella doesn’t know what to say.

 

“Maybe we could talk,” Gwen offers when nothing comes. And the way she says it, _maybe we could talk_ , makes Stella think that she’s offering up the opportunity to discuss more than just her son’s case. The opportunity to discuss things that have burned and scarred several times over inside her, year after year, until she almost couldn’t feel them anymore. But she feels them now, aching dormantly beneath calloused skin. And the sudden urge to cut open old wounds is almost too tempting an offer to reject.

 

And as for her son’s case… Well, Stella’s going to have to find a way to break the news that there’s next to nothing she can do.

 

Legally.

 

“Sure,” she agrees but to what exactly, she doesn’t know.

 

“Okay,” Gwen sighs before suggesting a time and location.

 

“That’s fine.”

 

“Alright then,” Gwen responds lingeringly as if she might say something else. But then she simply lands on, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

Parting gifts of ‘goodbye’ or ‘I’ll see you then’ quickly race across Stella’s mind, pretty words and niceties used to wrap up conversations. None of them feel right. None of them feel deserved.

 

She ends the call.

 

Standing there pathetically in her kitchen, slowly collapsing in on herself, she cannot begin to process what she’s agreed to. A meeting with Gwen. Alone. _Maybe we could talk_. So much emotion surges through her that she almost goes completely numb. The dichotomy of living with such intense manifestations of anger and love, competing against each other in the face of rationalism… She doesn’t know how people are meant to survive it.

 

Then there’s a soft warmth at her shoulder. Reed. Her hand. Reed’s hand.

 

And then Stella registers Reed’s kind round eyes, concerned eyes, directly in her line of sight.

 

“Stella?”

 

It’s different from the way Gwen says it. Suddenly it’s so apparent how different it is.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yes,” she says standing up straighter, embarrassed by whatever the fuck’s just happened. Zoned out for a minute, maybe longer. God, hopefully she doesn’t look as lost as she seems. “Sorry.”

 

“It’s okay,” Reed says, a soothing hand cupping her neck, thumb running over her jawline. Stella notices Reed evaluating her through a doctor’s lens, and she might think to be annoyed by it if she weren’t so dazed. But then Reed must realize that she’s medically fine, absolutely fine, which essentially leaves emotionally unstable. Perfect. “Who was that?”

 

“No one,” Stella says coming back to herself, taking a deep breath and finding her footing. She notices Reed looking at her skeptically, still concerned, and Stella’s not being fair. She shakes her head. “Someone that I used to know,” she sighs, bracing herself. “I ran into her at the office this week. Her son is wrapped up in some trouble...

 

That’s all.”

 

“What kind of trouble?”

 

“Gang rape.”

 

“Oh god. He’s involved?”

 

“It doesn’t look good.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Reed says solemnly with a weight of understanding, and for some reason the apology hits Stella funny. It’s such a odd thing to say really, the sort of pointless thing people say to cushion the cruelest parts of life. But what does it even mean to be sorry without context, without affliction? It’s just something to say. A series of sounds, vowels and constants pushed together, nothing more.

 

“Sorry?” Stella asks.

 

Maybe she’s still out of it.

 

Maybe she’s being an asshole.

 

Maybe it’s both.

 

“For the girl,” Reed explains gently, unoffended by Stella’s question. “For your friend. And for you, I suppose, getting caught up in it.”

 

Caught up in it.

 

Stella’s entire life is caught up in it.

 

“Is the popcorn ready?” comes Jane’s voice as she enters the kitchen, stopping warily as she registers the serious atmosphere between them.

 

Reed smiles for her and moves to the microwave while Stella smooths out her sweater, trying to clear her mind. Jane eyes her critically and Stella wonders why children are so damn difficult to hide from? Adjusting her hair self consciously, she smiles tightly and decides to put on a brave face. At least for the rest of the afternoon. It’s better to appreciate the blessing of a diversion while she has it.

 

Especially if she’s going to make it through the night and into tomorrow. 

 

* * *

  

Stella’s bra is showing.

 

Intentionally?

 

Unintentionally?

 

She’s wearing this tight low-cut thing she’d seen in the window of a shop downtown. Something about it caught her eye as she’d passed by it last week. Glittering with promises, tempting her with the idea of someone she could be. And Stella would settle for just about anyone other than the person she actually is. But this particular garment grabbed her, whispered a soft and alluring tale of mouths and hands and things that go bump in the night. Then it demanded that she walk into the store and lay down more money than she should for it.

 

So far it’s a decision that she can’t bring herself to regret.

 

Two bright eyes behind the bar had deepened immediately at the sight of it, followed quickly by two burning shots of whiskey and then two less-burning shots of whiskey. A dangerous flash of lashes and a small folded apron later, Gwen yelled something distractedly at her coworker and slipped around the front of the bar, handing Stella a drink, biting the straw on her own.

 

“Graham’s gonna lose his shit when he sees you,” Gwen says around the straw, sucking the colored liquid down fast while her gaze unapologetically roams over Stella’s appearance.

 

Stella shrugs.

 

She doesn’t give a fuck about that guy.

 

“I told him not to come.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because he’s fucking annoying.”

 

Gwen laughs, unrestrained and rosy cheeked. “Probably because he’s crazy about you,” she says teasingly, as if the answer were obvious, as if he couldn’t be faulted for it. A mere mortal of a man taken by the dip of her lip and the heat of her cunt. As if it excused him from being so fucking annoying.

 

“So what?”

 

A confused look forms at Gwen’s brow, apparently surprised by Stella’s apathy towards him, and there’s a good chance it has something to do with his looks. After all, Graham’s ridiculously attractive. Physically anyway, incredibly handsome, ‘cut from the pages of a magazine’ handsome.

 

They’d all met a few weeks ago at some place very similar to this one, a run down bar with plenty of booze and plenty of time. And Stella had seen him twice since then, enough times to know that she didn’t want or need to see him again. He was as predictably inflated as he was dull, overly confident in his intelligence and just fine in bed.

 

Stella was beginning to learn that _just fine_ was no reason to stick around longer than a night or two. _Just fine_ wasn’t going to save her thoughts from wandering into forbidden territory. It wasn’t going to keep her from buying expensive clothes and making an ass out of herself like she would this evening.

 

She desperately needs a fuck worth having.

 

So Stella meets Gwen’s propped eyebrow with practiced indifference, a lift of her shoulder and challenging chin. She doesn’t want to spend the night with Just Fine Graham and his slick haircut, she doesn’t even want to spend it with the muscled canvas of his back. So what if he’s crazy about her? It’s so painfully irrelevant.

 

She has more intriguing intentions on her mind, intentions she ironically hopes might be quelled by swallowing more alcohol. Maybe if she drinks herself sick, she’ll be too incapacitated to do anything about them. Or maybe she’ll drink her brain into submission, it’s happened before, brief enough periods of deliverance.

 

It could happen again.

 

Tonight, she hopes.

 

Doesn’t hope.

 

She has no fucking idea what she’s doing.

 

“Alright,” Gwen says, holding her stare. And an unreadable expression falls over her face, something like acceptance or determination. And maybe something else that Stella can’t place. This elusive thing that Stella has been chasing in Gwen’s gaze since the night they met, this thing that piques her interest and makes her head spin. It’ll annihilate of her one day, she’s sure of it. “Finish your drink then. I’ll be your date.”

 

“I don’t need a date,” she says. And thank god some of the dignity she’s been missing returns in a valiant attempt to save her from herself.

 

“In that thing?” Gwen says looking her over with a twisted grin, and fuck if Stella isn’t satisfied as hell to see it. “Yes you do.”

 

And there it is, this question that keeps pushing itself to the forefront of her mind every second of the goddamn day. This thing they do. This thing they don’t do. Pushing her to the precipice of insanity. Stella tries to look indignant, tries to project an air of carelessness, as if it didn’t matter either way. She really wishes it didn’t.

 

“Someone should appreciate it properly,” Gwen continues, lips latching around her straw once more, a perilous proposal at the tip of her tongue. And then she smiles, a brilliant sort of smile, full of joy and fun and it’s exactly the sort of thing that makes Stella wonder if she’s lost her fucking mind. “Come on, finish,” she says indicating to Stella’s drink, “I want to dance.”

 

So that’s how she ends up with her tits out, intentionally, lace cups of her bra glimpsing the light of this otherwise very dark bar. It’s crowded chaos in the back, smoke hanging in the air, slowly suffocating them as they dance to the loud-as-fuck band in the corner. And her third drink (or maybe it’s her fourth drink) in, she’s got her arms slung over her best friend’s shoulders as they’re shoved around the small patch of dance floor.

 

Best friend.

 

Huh.

 

That’s so fucking weird.

 

Stella hasn’t had a best friend since she was a child, and she’s not even sure if that one counts. Some kid she just happened to be stuck with for long periods of time, the housekeeper’s son. He was fucking annoying too. As a matter of fact, everyone is. She hates spending time with people - for these socially acceptable marathons of time anyway.

 

But here she is, spending an inordinate amount of time with Gwen.

 

She hadn’t meant to, it was merely convenient at first. Not only did they live in the same building, they lived on the same floor. And then Gwen had this job learning to bartend downtown. So it was practical, close by, cheap liquor. Endless opportunities to get fucked up without going flat broke. That’s what she kept telling herself. All of those untold days and nights with her, racking up hours together, and it had just been easy. Easy to spend time with her, easy to be close with her. So easy that one day Stella simply blinked and there she was, wrapped up in this closeness.

 

Everyone else is just such shit in comparison.

 

She’s tried spending time with them, other people. They’re all so tiresome, irritatingly shallow and stupidly boring or at worst, all three. Too much effort to be worth it in the end. Stella doesn’t have the patience for it, doesn’t have the will for it. So most nights she ends up with Gwen who is none of the aforementioned things, least of all boring. And it’s probably why Stella can stand being around her most of the time.

 

Her best friend.

 

Well, that’s what other people might call them. Stella’s not terribly confident that’s what they actually are.

 

Because Gwen flirts with her. Like earlier. All wandering eyes and suggestive compliments. Like now. All wandering hands and suggestive hips. Always the brush of her hand, a well placed wink, smiles that fill Stella with that nameless high that only ever appears in her presence.  

 

And it’s giving her all sorts of ideas, ideas that really fucking confuse her because Gwen’s always fucking other people. Other guys. To be fair, so is Stella - it’s just that Stella’s not so sure they’re the only ones she wants to fuck anymore. Because when Gwen presses against her, Stella can smell her skin and it lights up the part of her brain that says, _‘I want to fuck you.’_ It’s the same part of her brain that lets these nights together go father than they should. The part of her brain that talks her into buying clothes she can’t afford and cancel on guys that want her company. The part of her brain that lets her palm slip under the hem Gwen’s shirt as if it were a mistake.

 

But it’s not a mistake.

 

Blood thick and slow with whiskey, her fingertips skim the smooth expanse of Gwen’s body as it moves beneath her touch, the tormenting roll of her hips, the hypnotizing sway of her shoulders. It’s reckless and she’ll feel like an idiot later, but she keeps her hand there brushing the freckles that blanket her bones. And Gwen’s thin and pliant, so unlike the muscled hardness of the men that she normally does this to. It makes Stella question if the rest of her would be this soft, it makes her want to find out.

 

God, she’s so screwed.

 

Stella’s not exactly versed in the rules of friendship but she’s fairly certain you’re not supposed to want to fuck them. Off-limits territory or something like that. And she’s tried to deny it, tried to convince herself that she’s just confused, that girls are close like this, that it doesn’t mean anything. But when Gwen looks at her with that dangerous glint of hurricane blue, Stella’s also fairly certain that she just really wants to fuck her.

 

It’s mostly this look that’s driving her into madness, this look that Gwen gives her. Tonight. Other nights. Because she’s seen this look on too many other people, other men, and she’s always known what it meant, always known what it would lead to. Only it’s Gwen’s face wearing it now, her sculpted flawless face flirting in front of her own and she knows she’s not imagining it. And if Stella’s not imagining it then it must be mutual. It must be.

 

Right?

 

Fuck.

 

Torture.

 

It’s torture not knowing and Stella wants it to be over, wants to push Gwen against a wall, stick her tongue in her mouth and her hand down her pants. Ask her if this is what she wants. But this is her best friend, not to mention the only person in the world she can stand. If it’s not what she wants, Stella highly doubts they’ll stay friends for much longer, especially if she chooses that particular tactic. So she stays wafting in no man’s land where her hands drift under Gwen’s clothes, where her hips push against Gwen’s hips, and she doesn’t kiss her.

 

But Stella really wants to kiss her.

 

Stella wants to do a lot of things but first and foremost, she just wants to kiss her.    

 

She wants to breathe in all the parts of her and exhale them as slowly as the joints they share on the roof.

 

Then Gwen’s face moves towards her and Stella’s pulse jumps frantically into overdrive. Is this it? Could it really happen so easily and without preamble as this? Two people pressed against each other in a crowded bar, surrounded by noise on a beer slicked floor. This looming question finally answered.

 

But it isn’t. Gwen just drunkenly pushes her forehead against Stella’s in a fervent meeting of red and blonde. She runs her hands up Stella’s sides as their noses nuzzle each other, and Stella can feel the sweltering heat of her exhale across her mouth. And their lips are so close, it would be so easy. Just an inch forward.

 

She could do it.

 

She should do it.

 

It’s the perfect time. Right here. Right now.

 

Just do it.

 

Stella moves her jaw.

 

_Ouch!_

 

_Goddammit!_

 

And Gwen’s no longer thrust up against her because some asshole who’s had more to drink than both of them combined is suddenly fighting another asshole, probably a victim of the same problem. Caught up in a haze of testosterone, they’ve pushed someone abruptly into Stella, half-knocking her over and the moment is gone.

 

So completely gone.

 

She’s tired.

 

“I’m going to get some air,” she says into Gwen’s ear, practically shouting above the loudness erupting around them.

 

“This way,” she responds, grabbing Stella’s hand and pulling.

 

Gwen practically drags her through the small mob of people toward the back door. Using the full force of her small body to push it open, it eventually gives way to the cramped alley behind the building where trash gets thrown at the end of the night. It’s deserted. Quiet.

 

Thank god.

 

And they walk out into the mild spring air, cool after being stuck in a swarm of hot bodies for the last few hours. Stella takes a deep breath and her head feels heavy. Closing her eyes, she leans up against the brick and tries to clear it. That’s when she realizes that this wall might be the only thing keeping her upright. What a nightmare.

 

Steadily breathing through the thick cloud of alcohol weighing her down, she tries to convince herself that she’s not making a fool of herself. That Gwen didn’t care about anything that happened inside, that she didn’t notice Stella almost definitely kiss her. Tonight’s like any other night out where the two of them get wasted and have a good time, nothing’s different. Nothing has to be different.

 

She needs to stop embarrassing herself like this.

 

She should leave.

 

Go find Just Fine Graham. Fuck him properly while he fucks her fine and pass out until she forgets everything about this night and every night before it. Wake up the next day and do it all over again. She’d rather walk into traffic.

 

Then the distinct click of a lighter interrupts her spiraling thoughts, a pavlovian response triggered in her brain.

 

“Want one?” Gwen offers as Stella opens her eyes.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Plucking a second cigarette from her pack, Gwen pockets the rest of them and approaches Stella’s leaning form. She stands between her legs, currently spread far enough to support all the deadweight attached to them. And Stella briefly evaluates her proximity before reaching for the cigarette. Just as her fingers move to take it, Gwen pulls it playfully out of reach and Stella can’t stop her groan of defeat from sounding off into the darkness.

 

She’s such a bitch and Stella’s officially too drunk for it, she doesn’t need the cigarette anyway. Whatever she needs is going to be a hell of a lot stronger.   

 

But she hears Gwen’s tinkering laugh, still so close, and then there’s the pressure of something small at her bottom lip. Cracking her eyes once more, Stella is met with Gwen’s mischievous smile and one seductively simple word. “Open.”

 

Jesus fucking christ.

 

Is she really supposed to ignore that?

 

Stella narrows her eyes.

 

Gwen lifts her brows innocently while her smirk tells a different story. And it’s just the sort of thing that makes Stella dissolve like sugar in water and try to kiss her on the dancefloor. Cosmically unfair. But drawing on the last dregs of her injured pride, Stella holds her ground, mouth remaining decidedly closed.

 

Contrary to her behavior this evening, she’s not actually that easy.

 

Then Gwen’s cheek is warm and peach-soft against her own, nose nestled into the fine hair above Stella’s ear. “Please?” The breathy request hits the sensitive skin of her ear, tickling, and igniting an army goosebumps. And as Gwen pulls back to see if she’s changed her mind, Stella’s heart races back to where it had been moments earlier inside. And her lips fall open, allowing Gwen to put the cigarette delicately between them with a triumphant smile.

 

She clicks the lighter.

 

Lights it.

 

Steps back.

 

Stella inhales.

 

This fucking game they play.

 

She breathes out smoke and it hovers poignantly between them.

 

“What’re you thinking about?” Gwen asks, fixed staring at her.

 

Stella laughs quietly, mostly to herself, a self-deprecating sort of thing.

 

“You don’t want to know.”

 

Gwen hums around a curved lip.

 

She knows exactly what Stella’s thinking.

 

Stella knows she does.

 

She should call her on it.

 

“Have you ever made a woman come?” Gwen asks her and Stella almost chokes, lungs full of smoke and wayward self control. Stella blinks a few times and Gwen looks so unphased it’s unnerving.

 

“No.”

 

Gwen doesn’t say anything, just flicks her cigarette and brings it back to her mouth.

 

“Have you?” Stella asks.

 

Gwen smiles. “Yes.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Just once.”

 

Stella wants to ask more questions but her intoxicated thoughts won’t let her. It’s hung up on the image of Gwen making a woman come. Flushed with the knowledge that she’s capable of it. And beyond the countless details that remain fierce question marks in her mind, Stella mostly just feels turned on by it, body swelling with it. As if she needed another reason to feel this way about her.

 

Then Gwen’s throwing the butt of her cigarette to the ground, stamping it forcefully with the toe of her boots. And her focus is very distinctly back on Stella as she blows the last bit of smoke from her pursed lips, creating a thick filmy curtain between them.  

 

“Ever fucked in public?”

 

And Stella laughs at that one.

 

Honestly, what the fuck?

 

She’s more wasted than she thought or this is a dream. Because it doesn’t make much sense and Stella’s practically on the verge of combusting from the intensity of Gwen’s stare. Stella’s definitely found herself in some vaguely erotic dreamscape where she and Gwen discuss her fantasies next to a dumpster. She needs to stop drinking or drink a lot more. One of the two.

 

Chuckling into her dead cigarette, Stella takes one last puff before throwing it aside.

 

“Have you?” Gwen asks again when Stella doesn’t answer.

 

“No.” The air begins clearing around them and Gwen steps forward, head falling to the side as she looks Stella over. And something about this particular look is different, has Stella holding her breath, unable to move. “Have you?”

 

“Yes,” she says quietly, stepping back between her legs.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Stella asks incredulously because maybe she doesn’t know anything about Gwen at all. Maybe all the things she wants to know, she hasn’t found out yet.

 

“Just once,” she giggles quietly, settling herself there firmly, a hand coming to rest on the brick above Stella’s shoulder.

 

“Do you try everything just once?” Stella asks as she looks skeptically from the hand back to Gwen’s face.

 

“Some things I want to try more than once.”

 

Gwen looks into her eyes and it’s all Stella can do to just look back, suddenly afraid of what she’ll see there. After all, plenty of people go blind from looking directly at the sun.

 

But then Gwen’s lips are against hers and she forgets about blindness, she forgets about everything. It’s just firm and perfect. And god yes, fuck yes.

 

Stella’s hand moves past her sweeping sheath of hair to cradle her jaw, immediately pulling her closer. Because she can’t believe it’s finally happening, the fit of Gwen’s mouth finally against hers. She’s wondered about it for so fucking long that she can’t help her body’s instinctual desire to taste her, tongue sweeping to greet her upper lip. Apparently it’s a shared request as Gwen opens her mouth skillfully, granting Stella access with a graze of her teeth.

 

And it's a cocktail of tobacco and whisky, shaken by months of pent-up restraint.

 

There’s an urgency that Stella hasn’t felt in a long time as Gwen pulls at her clothes and keenly presses into her hips. And a sudden breath of air washes over Stella’s lips as Gwen breathes harshly, pushing her skull into the brick with the pressure of their kiss, the unforgiving hardness of rough stone scraping against her scalp.

 

Briefly, Stella wonders if this is what life is supposed to feel like all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who reads and especially those of you who review. I can't tell you how much your feedback means to me. Honestly, it gives me the strength to push through writing even when it is gruelingly difficult (like it is right now haha). Thank you for sticking with me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to @JenSchwartz21, @SpookyHadley and @nicole_golding! This chapter was a monster to write so thank you for your patience. It's a rough chapter emotionally but fret not, there are some fluffier moments to come next chapter.
> 
> TW: Vague references to trauma and violence

Walking gingerly through the door, Stella immediately scans the array of cafe tables and dainty chairs. It’s a decent sized place, well-lit by the afternoon sun shining through a large wall of windows. An optimistic atmosphere, brightly adorned with daisies and stark white cups, not where she would have expected to confront such haunting revenants. And it’s not difficult for Stella to spot her, red tendrils careening down the back of her head, quietly floating amongst the sea of place settings.

 

A flickering flame at the center of a china teacup.

 

It makes Stella’s stomach twist in the worst way, just the sight of it, knowing she’s so unassumingly near. Hearing Gwen’s voice over the phone had been one thing. Their fleeting hallway encounter, a shock to the system. But this planned meeting, this organized reunion, expectations and unresolved feelings spilled across the crisp tablecloths like blood at a crime scene.

 

She can’t stand it and she hasn’t even said hello yet, hasn’t even seen her face. And Stella tries to avoid doing things she can’t stand, but unfortunately this isn’t one of those things that can be avoided. She has to walk over there and let this play out, whatever the end result may be. It will be excruciating, surely, walking into fire always is. Usually the smell of singed hair is enough to make people flee, second guess themselves and walk away. But not Stella. She’s roused herself from more than one ashy grave, she’s no stranger to coughing up smoke or treating her own wounds. It’s a need, however painful, to set fire to herself and rise out of whatever’s left.

 

Burning oneself into new life. Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe that’s what she needs it to be.

 

So Stella takes one step and then another, each footfall bringing her closer toward the glimmering drape of hair. Zeroing in on her target, she’s suddenly surprised by the strangest sensation of her legs going numb - pins and needles blazing down her thighs, invading the tips of her toes. It’s quickly followed by the vague awareness that she might be suffocating, completely breathless in her own body, chest tight from abstinence. God, she needs to breathe. This is going to be hard enough with her body intact, let alone semi-functioning lungs and limbs. She hasn’t even spoken yet, who knows if her mouth still works.

 

Well, if evolution’s intent on fucking her over with a dramatic display of Fight or Flight, fine. Stella’s seen worse. She’s faced the cold lifeless skin of countless dead bodies, the sadistic calculating eyes of serial killers. She knows the strength of her own body and the fortitude of her own mind in life or death situations. Calling on those things now, she forces her body into submission with steadying breaths, slow and firm to calm her escalating heart rate.

 

It accomplishes nothing.

 

Then she’s at their table, as good a place to burn alive as any.

 

Vision glazing over, Stella places her bag carefully to the ground and removes her coat. There’s a caution to it, a delicacy to her movements that comes from the heightened awareness of being watched. And even without looking, Stella knows the temptation to stare, especially in these first few moments. The same desire pulls at her as she slides each coat sleeve deliberately from her wrists, the need for a quick glance, firmly denied. Because the longer she can keep herself from looking, the better. If history has taught Stella anything, it’s that she makes shitty decisions upon looking at her.

 

Looking at her had been the first mistake.

 

So she hangs her coat skillfully across the back of the chipped white chair, pulling it out just enough to settle herself into it. Back stiffening as she adjusts her trousers, Stella pulls at the fabric across her knee in a last-ditch effort to appear busy before the inevitable. But there’s no avoiding it any longer. She has no choice but to lift her eyes decidedly upwards, finally casting light over Gwen’s face.

 

And it reinforces why Stella had taken her time.

 

Years pass and people change, but something around the eyes stays the same. Properly looking at her now, Stella sees that Gwen’s particular shade of blue is no exception. The thumbprint webbing of her iris and the way her brows break with emotion. Stella’s seen everything a person can see projected across this set of eyes. This time it’s mostly fear though. Surrounded by strangers in this ordinary coffee shop, Stella sees the fragile thread of fear woven there, ornamented by a grim smile and small traces of hope balanced treacherously at the edge of her lips as she waits for Stella to say something.  

 

But Stella says nothing. She focuses all of her energy toward achieving a neutral stasis, remaining calm and indifferent because the alternative is unthinkable. Which varied barrage of emotion would rush forward to meet Gwen’s fear if she allowed it? No, Stella doesn’t trust herself with feelings, especially not when it comes to the woman sat across from her just an arm’s reach away.

 

Such a small table. They should’ve gone somewhere with larger tables.

 

The seconds tick by, morphing into minutes, morphing into mountains. And it’s agony, looking at her so closely and so casually. As if this is a normal afternoon, like maybe they’ve been meeting here for years, just saw each other a few weeks ago. A day like any other, catching up over coffee. But it’s nothing like that, it’s a day that Stella has long since dreamt of and convinced herself would never come. Simply looking at her, the mere gravity of it has mountains morphing into volcanoes, molten rock spewing from the cracks of the earth.

 

Gwen’s eyes wander over Stella’s face with the familiarity of someone who, once upon a time, could map out every freckle. And Stella wonders what Gwen must think of her, if she’s changed as much (or as little) as Gwen has. Some things are so drastically different and some things are so drastically not. It has Stella wondering if Gwen could pinpoint the difference.

 

“Thank you for coming,” Gwen says kindly and it’s soft, warm even, like a dusky summer breeze.

 

Stella can barely nod. She can barely do anything.

 

“Can I get you ladies something to eat or drink?” the waiter asks, interrupting Stella’s lack of appropriate response and defective motor skills.

 

Grateful for the chance to think about literally anything else, Stella looks over the menu between them on their too-small table. If only they served proper drinks, ones with liquor in them. Then again, drinking with Gwen would undoubtedly end in disaster and nothing short of chugging bleach would make this easier for her. Probably best to accept it and carry on, just pick something.

 

“Cappuccino,” she manages.

 

“I’ll have the same,” Gwen says, and the waiter picks up their menu and disappears.

 

Stella wishes he would come back.

 

“I was worried you wouldn’t,” Gwen says after an awkward pause. “Show up, I mean. I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

 

“I said I would.”

 

“I know but…”

 

Gwen trails off self-consciously. Shoulders caving into her chest, she swipes nervously at her hair and Stella notices a stray tear slip over the curve of her cheek. _Does she really cry so easily?_ They’ve barely spoken ten words to each other. How were they expected to get through the next hour let alone the next ten minutes? How did Gwen expect to enlist Stella’s help? Because that’s why she’s here, why she’s really here, for her son. And crying could be a tactic, one meant to elicit Stella’s empathy in hopes that she’ll offer a miraculous solution. No, that can’t happen, she can’t let the turbulent storm of Gwen’s eyes break the levee of her judgement.

 

“Stella, I hope you don’t hate me,” she says looking down at her hands, and it comes out quiet and broken. “I don’t know if I could bear it if you did.”

 

God, it’s so like her. It’s so like her to say something disarming in that watery dejected tone. And it’s the sort of thing people say for reassurance and distraction, the sort of thing that makes you forget. Stella wishes she could hate her for it, she wishes that it were easy to dismiss. Just words, empty words, useless sounds. But when Gwen works up the nerve to look at her, knuckles white and gripping at each other, Stella can’t help but say what she knows is true.

 

“I don’t hate you.”

 

There’s a shaky breath across from her, one of relief and necessity as Gwen wipes the corner of her eye, accepting Stella’s sparse affirmation. Then she sits up straighter, fortifying herself to say whatever comes next, and it’s almost funny how desperate they are to act so fucking normal. To be calm and cordial, to blend into to this pretty place. It’s so unlike them, unlike what Stella remembers of them. This trepidation feels so foreign to her, more foreign than seeing each other again after all these years.

 

“I know it’s not worth much,” Gwen says, still nervously clasping her hands, forcing her eyes to stay on Stella’s. “But I am sorry. Truly.”

 

Fuck.

 

Fuck this.

 

Stella hates this, she hates it more than she ever thought she could.

 

And it’s true that Stella doesn’t hate Gwen, but she really hates _this_. This thing where Gwen looks at her, pitying eyes and twenty years between them, apologizing. As if she can see the shallow trenches of each scar carved in her absence, plain as day, and then say sorry like it’s supposed to mean anything.

 

Looking at her expectantly, Gwen waits for Stella’s response with a desperately hopeful look on her face. Full of promise and naivety, brimming with the possibility that this could all turn out okay. And for the sake of closure and her dwindling dignity, Stella wishes she knew what to say. Staring down the barrel of Gwen’s remorse, she suddenly realizes that she has no idea what to do with an apology that means everything and nothing all at once.

 

Not a clue.

 

Then the waiter returns.

 

Setting down their cups, he politely checks on them, asking if they need anything, and Stella needs a lot of things but nothing this man can provide. A few stolen moments with her coffee will have to do. So she picks it up with jittery fingers and briefly hides behind the facade of caring about it, successfully taking a sip and returning it to its saucer. For a few seconds, she achieves the fluid nonchalance of someone who isn’t disintegrating and it’s a victory she’ll take, however small. She’ll take anything at this point.

 

“Sometimes it’s hard to remember,” Gwen ventures in the wake of Stella’s silence, carefully tracing the ceramic lip of her cup. “...How awful everything was back then.” Her voice is so warm and feathery as she speaks that it leaves Stella dramatically unprepared for the visceral desire to scream when she hears it.

 

_Sometimes it’s hard to remember…_

 

Bullshit.

 

Stella can hardly believe such a ludicrous thing has just come out of her mouth, so convincingly at that, like a lie she’s told herself so many times that she actually starts to believe it.

 

“I seem to remember quite clearly,” Stella says, unable to keep the razor sharp sting of hurt from her voice and Gwen practically flinches. Her normally full lips press together determinately as she tries to swallow the thin edge of Stella’s words, shoving them down with an uncomfortable gulp. Then there’s a shift, a squaring of her shoulders as she forces a grimace so disturbingly reminiscent of the robotic expressions painted onto marionettes. A poor attempt at a polite smile, ridiculously fucking fake.

 

“Everything’s managed to get away from me a bit, I’m afraid…

 

“But I’m very glad to see you.”

 

It’s like sandpaper dragging over Stella’s heart.

 

Glad to see her.

 

Gwen is glad to see her.

 

She’s willfully and purposefully forgotten everything, the most important things a person should remember, but at least she’s glad to see her? Is that how this is supposed to go? Stella is supposed to absolve her, tell her that it was a long time ago. _Oh, the details get blurry for me too, water under the bridge._ Then they go about having a nice coffee, catching each other up on the last two decades. Gwen lights up when she tells Stella about her children, how Greg’s become an excellent father - he goes to all of their games, even their recitals.

 

Is that what’s expected of her?

 

If so, she should probably leave. Now.

 

Gwen looks at her like maybe she’s hoping Stella will say any number of those things. And Stella can’t do it. Even for the sake of Gwen’s tears, which reemerge in the breadth of Stella’s silence.

 

“Stella… I don’t know what else to say.”

 

“Where were you?”

 

“What?”

 

“Where _were_ you?” Stella repeats fixedly and everything in her feels hard like granite, calcified and immovable as if the strong pillar of her spine has been chiselled into an effigy of their past, unwilling to be forgotten. And Gwen suddenly seems to understand.

 

“That first year?”

 

“Sure,” Stella says bitterly, because how the fuck would she know.

 

“New York, mostly,” Gwen replies, swallowing nervously in the face of Stella’s caustic tone. “I spent some time in Philadelphia but it was mostly New York.”

 

“How long?”

 

“5 years,” Gwen says quietly as Stella tries to process. She replays the last time she saw Gwen through the lens of this new information, looking for signs, anything at all that might have warned her about this impulse to cross the Atlantic. And there’s still nothing. No answer. No way she could have known. “Then something went wrong with my visa,” Gwen continues cautiously, “and I had to come home.”

 

“You were here the entire time after that?”

 

“In North London, yes,” she admits and Stella can feel her eyes go wide with disbelief, eyebrows jutting up into her hairline. And the admission hurts more than Stella had it expected it to, and truthfully she had expected it to hurt like a motherfucker. But this - this was a new low. Lower and more insulting than Stella had once thought possible. Knowing that Gwen had been mere minutes away, so physically close all this time - my god, since 1996 - and she’d never said a word, never thought to let her know...

 

“Stella, I couldn’t contact you,” Gwen explains earnestly, the unmistakable urgency of fear in her voice, desperate to be understood. “You have to believe me.”

 

Crossing her arms protectively, Stella tries very hard to stall her anger and hear Gwen’s plea. Because unlike Gwen, Stella makes no excuses, she vividly remembers everything. She still recalls those moments of heightened terror coursing through her veins, the visceral explosion of pain across her left cheekbone, all of it as if it were yesterday. And perhaps if Stella were someone else, if she weren’t so unfortunately familiar with Greg’s anger, well maybe she’d be less inclined to listen, less inclined to believe this particular explanation.

 

But Greg hated her.

 

Still hates her.

 

And in that reflexive sort of way, Stella briefly worries that Gwen is with her even now, out in the open for anyone to see. She wonders what Gwen tells him, if she tells him anything at all, or if he even pretends to care. She wonders what Greg would do if he discovered they were together this afternoon, and that brings her back to Gwen’s fright-ridden eyes.

 

Shaking her head slowly, Stella bites the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to cry. Because it’s all so infuriating. How many times she helped Gwen leave him, how many times she eventually went back, even after escaping halfway across the world...

 

“How the hell did you end up back with him?”

 

“Things were different when I came back,” Gwen tells her. “He seemed different - he is, I mean. He’s different now.”

 

Stella narrows her eyes, a withering look aimed straight for Gwen’s grossly transparent denial. Continually insulted, Stella wonders why Gwen thinks it’s worth lying to her about this. After all, Stella had lived through it too, she’d been right there by her side. Despite her bruised ego and shattered feelings, she’d never done anything but try to help Gwen, tried to heal her. And Stella’s mature enough to admit that some of it was completely selfish - when you’re in love with someone, how can it not be? But she’d never hurt her…

 

And somehow that was never enough. It still wasn’t enough.

 

Above all, Stella hates that she’s still comparing herself to him.

 

Under Stella’s arctic stare, Gwen shifts uncomfortably in her seat, eyes darting anxiously from her hands to Stella’s shoulder and back again, searching for something else to say. But there’s nothing for her to say, nothing at all. The only thing Stella wants to hear is the truth, an explanation for why she ultimately meant nothing in the end, why they’ve spent twenty years apart and nothing’s changed. And since Gwen seems intent on pretending that everything’s turned out fine, it leaves Stella surrounded by nothing but emerging resentment.

“I know you don’t believe me but-“

 

“I looked for you,” Stella interrupts, unable to stand hearing another bullshit word leave her mouth. “For years. Even after you came home. Can you possibly imagine how stupid that makes me feel, knowing that you were just there with him. Such a fucking joke.”

 

“Stella…”

 

“I thought maybe he’d killed you and got away with it. Did you know that?” she asks pointedly, letting it sink in before stating the obvious. “Of course you didn’t. But I spent the better part of a year trying to prove it. When you were first gone.”

 

“I should’ve said something.”

 

“Yes, you should have.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“I can’t believe that after everything, you didn’t trust me.”

 

“You had no idea how bad it’d gotten, Stella. I had to get away. I needed a fresh start.”

 

“Ironic how things turn out.”

 

“You don’t know him anymore.”

 

“Don’t I though?”

 

Gwen’s weak bout of righteousness crumbles beneath the biting truth of Stella’s words, tears immediately spilling over onto her cheeks. Wiping them hastily away, she takes a deep breath and shakes her head.   

 

“This isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

 

“How did you want it to go exactly?”

 

“Better than this,” Gwen responds firmly, looking at her with all of the sincerity she can muster.  “I’ve missed you.”

 

Stella wants to believe her.

 

She wants to quell her anger and find it in her heart to understand. She wants her professional instincts to kick in because it’s her job to empathize with women like Gwen, women who go back to their abusers and develop these twisted ways of thinking. She wants to feel like she hasn’t been surgically cut down the middle, broken bones and bleeding arteries, pain gushing everywhere. But she’s just so full of it, so full of this age-old fucking hurt. The kind of hurt that comes from loving someone when you didn't even know you were capable of it, and then realizing twenty years later that it was worthless.

 

Because as much as Stella’s tried to deny it or convince herself otherwise, she had loved Gwen. Truly and fully loved her in that poetic sort of way that makes people whole. It’s one of the few things in life that’s ever made sense to her and yet not at all, because she’d never had a choice in it. She just did. And over the years, as time has passed and she’s been forced to ask herself _what the actual fuck is wrong with her_ , she’s at least had this to hold onto - the validation that she isn’t entirely wrong or unfixable, that she’s at least loved one person.

 

Even if that one person hadn’t quite loved her enough back.

 

“You have no idea how ridiculous it is to hear you say that,” Stella says quietly, moving to leave. She can’t stay here, not when it’s so obvious that Gwen understands nothing about what Stella went through in her absence. But as she pushes her chair back, she feels a delicate hand grab her own, halting her before she can get up.

 

She stares at their hands for a long moment, unable to escape the feeling that she’s been snared, caught in a trap, one she might never escape. And when she eventually bolsters the courage to look Gwen in the eye, perhaps for the last time, she finally sees the person she fell in love with a very long time ago.

 

“I wish things were different,” she says tearfully, squeezing the soft pads of Stella’s fingers. “I wish I was different.”

 

“I have to go,” Stella says, pulling her hand away and standing swiftly.

 

“Wait, Stella, I need your help. My son-”

 

Grabbing her things, Stella collects herself as best she can. And then, in her most professional voice, she tells Gwen to cooperate with the investigation.

 

* * *

 

Stella swims.

 

Water gliding powerfully across her back and down her legs, she forces herself through it. The dense chlorinated water, emotions going thick in her throat, each minute ticking by more slowly than the one before it - she pushes through all of it. Breathing, pulling, pushing, again and again.

 

She makes herself keep going. Even when her lungs roar with pain, even when her side aches from exertion. Knowing she should stop. She doesn’t stop.

 

Because the water affords her silence, it affords her focus.

 

One goal: keep moving no matter what.

 

Forward.

 

Gasping for breath, she rises above and below the surface while water echoes all around her, the thrashing sound of it hums like static as her arms and legs cut through with a vengeance.

 

Everything feels fatigued but she draws on her last bits of energy, pushing herself impossibly harder.

 

She wonders how much longer it would take for her to drown.

 

* * *

 

 

Heavy.

 

It’s all she can think about, all she can feel climbing up the steps to her flat - an almost impossibly difficult task. But this is good because maybe she’ll be too exhausted to do any real harm to herself this evening. Maybe she’ll fall asleep, drift into an endless void before completely draining the rather large bottle of scotch sitting patiently in her liquor cabinet.

 

Clumsily rummaging through her pockets, she grasps a jingling set of keys and unlocks the door with an callous push, trying not to think about her day. It’s been hours now since she walked away from her, left her sitting there in that cafe. But Stella imagines that it will take more than hours, weeks or even years before she eliminates this afternoon from her mind. No, that’ll definitely require more alcohol than her liver can physically handle in one evening. Such a shame since it won’t stop her from trying.

 

Walking through the door, she kicks off her heels and leaves them carelessly in the hall. She can’t be bothered to do anything she’s supposed to right now. Then her phone buzzes from the safety of her coat pocket and immediately she prays that it’s a call she won’t have to take.

 

But a quick glance tells her that it’s Reed.

 

A call that she doesn’t have to take and probably shouldn’t take, but a call that she wants to take. So she answers.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hi,” Stella replies and even the single syllable sounds tired.

  
“How’d it go?”

 

“How’d what go?”

“The meeting? With your friend?”

 

“Oh,” Stella says having forgotten that Reed knew about her plans today. And then she feels inexplicably guilty because yes, Reed had vaguely known about her plans. But she hadn’t really known, not the full extent of them, not the lethal implications they might invoke in the following hours. Hanging her coat, Stella fights back the impulse to lie - it’s not a strong one considering she’s exhausted most of her impulse control. She’s exhausted most of her everything at this point. So she settles on something short. “Not well.”

 

“Oh,” Reed says quietly, not expecting her answer.

 

It has Stella morbidly wondering if she’ll ask more questions. She wonders how much elaboration she’s willing to stomach for Reed’s sake before saying something irreversibly stupid and unkind. Because it’s bound to happen, she knows herself too well. She’s simply not built for questions, not about this.

 

She sighs in response, hoping it might convey her desire to discuss it later. Or never.

 

Never sounds nice.

 

“Are you around?” Reed posits instead.

 

“Hm?”

 

“This evening? I could drop by.”

 

And the way that Reed says it manages to both, soothe and sting. As if she’s sensed everything that hurts in Stella’s voice and has effectively diagnosed her, prescribing the salve of her company on a rumpled notepad. “Human Contact” scrawled out in those crunched letters doctors always use, so messy you can barely read it. And like any petulant adult disinterested in bedside manner, Stella instinctually rejects it, preferring to be alone. Gaping wounds aren’t new to her and she’s used to handling them on her own, botched stitches and whisky anesthetic. All at the expense of her own sanity.

 

But she’s just so _tired_ , a blessing and a curse. Because as much as she doesn’t want to wear the evidence of her emotions so plainly for Reed to see, she doesn’t have the strength to put up a fight either. Not with Reed and not with herself. Even on behalf of her better instincts, currently begging her to salvage just an ounce of self respect. Anything she can hold onto as proof that she’s not completely pathetic.

 

“There’s no need,” Stella assures in an almost whisper. And it’s a truly pitiful attempt to sound convincing.

 

“I don’t mind,” Reed says, unphased. “Dan has the girls for the night, they’re staying with his parents. I’d be happy to...”

 

Stella leans against the wall of her hallway, shoulder digging into the eggshell finish as she considers Reed’s offer, entirely stuck between her own competing interests with neither the energy to hide nor the energy to refuse her. A catch 22. She wavers, calling on the sturdy beams of her house to support her, forehead pressing into the drywall, knowing she should say no.

 

Shouldn’t say no.

 

 _Just say no_.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“Alright, I’ll be around shortly.”

 

Hanging up, Stella lets herself slump against the wall and tells herself not to panic. This is actually a good thing, Reed is always a good thing.

 

Maybe her best good thing.

 

And it’s not that she doesn’t want to see her. No. Stella just doesn’t want to have to explain herself right now, this walking human bruise she’s become, ugly and sore to the touch. After everything that’s happened today, nerve endings raw and mangled, Reed coming over is practically asking for trouble… Then again, maybe Stella’s looking for trouble. Maybe some part of her wants Reed to push and poke her, scrape up against her so that she can react badly.

 

Any excuse to cut out the last good thing.

 

Why is she like this?

 

This is one of those times, one of those instances where it’s so clear that something is deeply wrong with her. Somewhere in her wiring lies a critical error, this incompatible part of her that rejects wholeness, that pushes it away. She’s tried to pinpoint it but her investigative tools, therapy, journaling, dream journaling, more therapy, they’d all been for naught. How many more times can she disassemble herself and go back to the drawing board? Adapt. Rebuild. Survive. How many times can one person fail at being appropriately functional before realizing that it’s just not meant to be?

 

Unable to bring herself any closer to that answer, she leaves it at the door with her discarded heels.

 

She needs to get out of these clothes.

 

Gripping the banister, she drags herself upstairs and stares dazedly at her wardrobe, feeling overwhelmed by the simple pressure of having to choose something. It’s much more daunting than she anticipated. Lifting her limbs, peeling away clothing in favor of _other_ clothing, putting things back on. Somehow she manages to pad downstairs fully clothed in something new, unable to change what’s inside the comfort of her sweater just as easily.

 

She stuffs herself into a corner of the couch and makes her way through two fingers of scotch, unsure how long she’ll be waiting. Eyes closed, she wonders how much she’ll get through before Reed arrives. Obviously she doesn’t want to be obliterated but sobriety certainly isn’t an option - a difficult line to walk on afternoons like this and when the time comes, she’s not confident she’ll walk it well.

 

And her mind drifts.

 

Memories stretch out like sticky strings of taffy, a gluttonous mass of color in her brain. In her mouth. In her body.  

 

She can’t really move.

  
She’s just so tired.

 

_Breath catching, she hears her heart beat in her ears, blood rushing everywhere, tingling in the tips of her fingers. She aches, chest tight from tears while everything else purrs from coming. And Stella pushes her face into the mascara-marked sheets feeling more things than she’s used to feeling in a given day._

 

_Skin slick and humid, her legs tangle with a pair similar to her own. So remarkably similar to her own, she’s practically wrapped up in a reflection._

 

_“You deserved better than that,” Gwen says, her voice thick and balmy like entering a greenhouse._

 

_Stella’s confused for a moment, limp and sated, until she remembers what they’d been discussing before Gwen’s head disappeared between her thighs. And then the part of her chest that aches from crying aches a little harder._

 

_“It’s fine.”_

 

_“You don’t have to say that. Some things aren’t fine.”_

 

 _“What else are you supposed to say?”_   
_  
_ “‘That’s fucked up,’” Gwen offers.

 

_“I didn’t tell you so you could coddle me.”_

 

_Gwen shifts her weight, sheets rumpling over their messy limbs so that she can prop herself over Stella. Strands of red hair hang down, tickling her flushed cheeks and creating a red room of beaded curtains where their faces meet._

 

_“I’m not coddling you.”_

 

_Struck silent, Stella shuts her eyes to the proximity of Gwen’s stare pointed down at her. She doesn’t know how to talk about these things, doesn’t know why she’d let it slip from her mouth in the first place. Certain tales are better left untold, unacknowledged._

 

_Undeserving._

 

_“Children deserve better. It’s not coddling and it’s not pity._

 

_It’s just true.”_

 

_A tear burns from the edge of Stella’s closed lid, seeping into her hairline and her chest constricts all over again._

 

_She doesn’t have anything else to say, doesn’t have anywhere else to look. Reluctantly, she meets Gwen’s unwavering blue eyes and discovers absolute clarity there. No hint that she thinks of her differently._

 

_Afternoon sun kisses the fan of her lashes as Stella lifts her head off the pillow and tilts her chin just so. Licking the corner of Gwen’s mouth, she bites the rosy part of her lip where it still shines from the wetness of her own arousal._

 

_And then she’s alone._

 

_Starkly alone. The kind of loneliness that screams and howls and demands attention._

 

_And she wonders what kind of drugs turn that off. She’s tried enough of them. So many last night that she’s shocked to be breathing, shocked to be blinking, shocked to be anything._

 

_And now her entire body hurts._

 

_It’s not fucking fair._

 

_She just wants to be quiet, wants to be numb. Wants to stop remembering all the times she wasn’t numb._

 

_There’s a full gallery of memories for her mind to get lost in now. A museum of ghosts filled up by the same person. It makes her old haunts feel like child’s play._

 

_And she hasn’t been able to move for hours. Her body is so angry at her. And she’s so angry at it._

 

_So angry at herself._

 

_She’s so angry at him._

 

_She’s suddenly filled with it as Gwen stands before her, shirt gone, mouth seeking her mouth, fingers tearing at her clothes. And it’s always so urgent these days. Panic-driven. Aggressive._

 

_“The fuck is this?” Stella asks pulling Gwen’s hand away from her pants, trying to look at it in the fumbling darkness._

 

_“Stop it,” Gwen says, and resumes the assault on her mouth, shoving her hand back towards the irritating button at Stella’s trousers._

 

_And Stella tries not to kiss her, finds it harder to break away than she should. Normally she’s just so ready to be swallowed by the song of her lips, consumed by the gifts of her attention. But not this time. So she pushes her forehead into Gwen’s, using the leverage to escape the heated pull of her mouth._

 

_Her fingers wrap around Gwen’s other wrist, wrestling it into view. She’s given up the one that’s inching its way into her underwear and god, it’s not easy to focus on two things at once. It’s especially not easy when the pads of Gwen’s fingers discover how much she wants her. And a sharp rush of air escapes Stella’s lungs at the contact because fuck, she’s missed her and she misses this._

 

_But she stops it._

 

_Hands stalling hands, she brings Gwen’s unoccupied arm between them. Even in the dark, it takes just seconds to see it, Gwen’s forearm painted with the same reds and blacks from Memling’s “Hell.” But then she’s stealing her arm back, unwilling to let Stella look too close._

 

_“Gwen-”_

 

_“Just stop,” Gwen says forcefully, linking their fingers, tightening her grip as Stella tries to pull away. Squaring off, Gwen brings her face to Stella’s and arches forward, her spine curling like a cat. The lace cups of her bra scrape against Stella’s nipples and it’s pathetic how quickly it almost changes her mind. And when Gwen’s wrist starts working, the one still buried deep in fabric of her underwear, she really almost changes her mind. Breath whispers against her skin, “Be with me.”_

 

_“He can’t do that to you,” Stella tries before her hips jerk into Gwen’s hand, unable to refuse her much longer, and she fucking hates how much she wants her. She hates it almost as much as she loves her. Almost as much as she hates him. Her heart pounds with it, mercilessly thrumming in her chest, throbbing in her core._

 

_“Fuck him,” Gwen says finding Stella’s bottom lip with her teeth. And she’s angry at him, they both are. That’s how this goes now, more often than not. “I don’t want to think about him, I want to think about you.”_

 

_And walking down the street, Stella doesn’t want to think about her._

 

_She spends so much time trying not think about her. But they’d been too many places together, almost everything feels like a painful reminder._

 

_So she fantasizes about leaving, about going somewhere else._

 

_But she can’t do that either._

 

_She knows it’ll happen one day. It’ll be the last time. And Stella will be here when the time comes, otherwise Gwen might never walk away._

 

_She doesn’t know how to not be there for her._

 

_Then she’s startled by it, the sound of a motorbike rushing towards her, bright headlights growing brighter._

 

_She can’t move._

 

Startled awake, her eyes flutter open and this is why she doesn’t sleep. One of the many reasons anyway. And then she hears it again, for real this time.

 

That signature sound of a thunderous engine.

 

How strange.

 

Eying the liquid amber lining her glass, she’s positive that she’s worked herself into an alcohol-induced delusion, senses scrambled, blurred the lines of her reality.

 

Because Reed’s supposed to be coming by, but that’s definitely not her.

 

It couldn’t be.

 

Even though Stella hasn’t gotten around to asking Reed what she’d done with it, Stella simply assumed that her bike was another casualty of the move. Everything surrounding it was absent - Reed’s leather jacket, her rounded arm hanging casually over a helmet, the worn pair of motorcycle boots that commanded **attention**. The bike itself was absent; it hadn’t been parked outside of her sister’s flat. Impressionist memories of the sidewalk and stairs play out from the only night she’d been there, and Stella would have noticed it. She’s sure.

 

However certain she feels, it doesn’t manage to stop her from pushing weakly off the couch or from wandering towards the door. Just for a look. To confirm.

 

Twisting the knob with a rusty creak, Stella opens her front door to see Reed quietly rumbling by a small patch of cement. **She looks over and smiles,** impressively straddling the sleak machinery of her bike. And it draws Stella closer because Reed’s never more confident than when she’s on it, sat comfortably on the stretched black leather. Stella still remembers seeing her for the first time, riding up to the crime scene outside of Sarah Kay’s home. In the midst of chaos, she’d still managed to move like each of the four ancient elements.

 

Powerful, steady and profound.

 

Making her way down the steps, a lazy curve forms at Stella’s lips. And it feels so strange to be smiling after everything that’s happened today, even just a small one. But the sight of her is surely worth _one_ smile at the very least. Probably more.

 

She wishes she had it in her.

 

And Reed kills the motor as Stella arrives at the street, everything going blissfully quiet.

 

“Where’ve you been hiding this?” Stella asks, the softness of her voice sounding too loud for her own ears.

 

“Few miles north in a garage,” Reed responds easily. “Fancy a ride?”

 

Briefly, Stella wonders if this isn’t all part of her delusion. Maybe she’s still back on her couch, fallen into a muddled dreamstate - only this time Reed steals her away on a very attractive stead. Escapism and fantasy distilled into a woman in black.

 

But then Reed’s eyes pull her definitively into the present, filling her with something real and reverent. Something so tangible that she almost forgets why she’s tired, why everything’s heavy. Like a shot of morphine, quick and effective. Almost euphoric.

 

Almost.

 

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

Leaving London is a blur.

 

A reel of film on fast forward, abruptly paused before jarring forward again. Hi-def glimpses of the small teal bulbs signaling _GO,_ keeping time with vehicles and pedestrians alike, scuffed shopper shoes and red brake lights in long vivid streaks. Moving. Still. Moving again.

 

Mildly dangerous.

 

It’s a cramped city on any day, hectic during most hours, and never more so than during the midst of rush-hour traffic. But Reed is a skilled (if not aggressive) driver behind the wheel so Stella holds on tight. Arms tucked firmly around her torso, Stella’s earlier traumatized muscles clench from the strain of staying upright until central London is far behind them.

 

And when they reach quieter country, she feels herself unwind, body sinking more comfortably around Reed’s, finally relaxed with the lengthy stretch of uninterrupted road. It’s a little surreal, gliding through the leafy patchwork of rolling hills and plush cotton clouds. Wind whipping around them as they cut a sharp path through time. Grounded and weightless. She marvels that something as simple as an engine can give this to people.

 

Its own therapy of sorts.

 

Under the meditative hum of their progress, she fully understands the attraction, why this is Reed’s salvation. As if purer levels of oxygen and carbon dioxide could filter years of loathing into background noise, how it all seems so much less important next to multiplying shades of green. What is mortal strife in comparison to all this?

 

Inexplicable.

 

An analeptic illusion, or maybe just a beautiful magic trick: physical distance transformed into emotional distance. The stunned audience of her mind left in awe, begging to know the secret, calculating the mirrors involved to achieve such a feat.

 

And maybe it’s not a trick, not an illusion.

 

It’s a bit hypnotic, the lull of constant speed, and Stella finds herself lost to it, subject to the irresistible paradox of her surroundings.

 

Pillowed by the warmth of Reed’s body and the distinct sensation of being very alone, secluded in the confines of her helmet, she is both. Alone and not alone. The wide open space of the world around them, the silence enveloped by a thick layer of certified plastic, the human softness of Reed’s body, the solitude of a country road.

 

It’s miles of this before she realizes that she’s crying.

 

Only the clammy wetness pooling at her jawline alerts her to it, followed by her suddenly obscured vision, the pallet of terrestrial hues blending into one nameless color under the distress of newly formed tears. Her first instinct is to stop it somehow, as if it were that simple. Just turn off the tap. But it’s too late to stave off, not something that can be stopped.

 

And then she waits for the anxiety to kick in - frustration with herself for shedding tears over things so far in the past that they might as well be ancient history. But it doesn’t come and she feels strangely calm, wet-faced inside the microcosm of her helmet, able to breathe more easily than she has in days.

 

Then Reed’s hand floats back to her leg in a steadying gesture, the warmth of her gloved palm gentle and comforting against the curve of Stella’s thigh. Giving way to a brief moment of fear, it occurs to her that maybe Reed can tell. Maybe she can sense the tears slipping quietly down her cheeks, maybe she can feel the hitch of Stella’s chest against the sturdy plane of her back. Or maybe she’s just being kind, connecting with her on a large expanse of highway.

 

Whatever Reed’s reasons, the fear passes as quickly as it arrived. Stella discovers that she’s not desperate to shield her from it, whether she knows or not. Usually so protective, she can’t reason with this peculiar display of ambivalence, and it feels remarkably foreign.

 

A bit freeing.

 

Dropping her grip from around Reed’s waist, her hands fall flat against the tops of Reed’s legs. Sturdy and muscular, she appreciates the shape of them, running her hands forward, approaching the bend of her knees. They’re as solid as the rest of her, strong in their stance, slender and capable. It’s a slow migration back up to her hip joints as Stella’s touch translates into a worshiping caress, a _thank you_ the best way she knows how.

 

And she anchors herself there, shifting a few millimeters closer, aligning her spine around Reed’s like a puzzle-piece, the way some people just fit together, and breathes.

 

With each breath, it’s miraculously easier to greet the next one.   

 

Then Reed’s hand returns to its grip at the handle, and there’s a gut-jolting pull as they speed forward, hurling through space.

 

Almost like flying.

 

* * *

 

Reed spots their destination up ahead.

 

Navigating the bike off-road onto a dirt path, she feels Stella’s grip tighten at her waist. It’s not terribly rocky, a few bumps here and there as they traverse a slight incline. And Reed already feels like a new person, her soul revitalized from their short journey.

 

It’s been too long since she’s had the chance to ride, easily over a month, and she’d almost forgotten how much she needed it - why she’d bought the bike in the first place. Caught up in the spiral of these last few weeks, she hadn’t had time to think about it, too many details to set straight, too many lives to organize. But out here, asphalt racing beneath her feet, it’s the one place that’s undeniably hers, the only time she can indulge in something entirely her own.

 

Her voice is the only one she hears.

 

Pulling onto the hill’s plateau, she finds an appropriate place to park and kills the engine. Fresh air greets her lungs as she dismounts and removes her helmet. It’s mossy and damp - the kind of smell you forget after years of living in cement-sealed cities. And there’s nothing like a sensory memory, the electric shock of it turning back the clock, decades disappearing at the whiff of aromatic grass. She remembers being a child, mesmerized by the sun bouncing off prismatic foliage in the garden, the intensity of the color reflected from the chlorophyll, how beautiful it was.

 

Then she turns to Stella.

 

She almost can’t believe she’s brought her here.

 

After yesterday’s - what was yesterday exactly? A date with Stella and her children? Reed’s not sure. To be honest, she hadn’t been sure about any of it, especially at the time. And when Stella had suggested she bring the girls along, well, Reed certainly hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t expected all of them to meet so quickly in the first place, let alone spend any time together - two full afternoons and counting. But it had felt strangely natural, sitting on Stella’s couch with the girls’ markers scattered across her expensive carpet. Stealing looks at Stella out of the corner of her eye to evaluate her body language.

 

She wishes that she knew how Stella felt about any of it and she wishes that the idea of Stella’s answer didn’t scare the shit out of her.

 

It’s not unreasonable that Reed should be cautious with her children. Obviously she doesn’t want them getting attached to someone who could walk away at any moment without notice or explanation. Not that she expects Stella to vanish… But sometimes when she’s with her, it’s like holding grains of sand - Stella’s there and then she’s not, a few corse reminders left behind on the palms of Reed’s hand, never quite gone even after being brushed away.

 

Like yesterday when she’d retreated so suddenly into herself, propped up against the kitchen counter, white-knuckling her cellphone. At first, Reed had instinctually worried before realizing it was an emotional reaction - something triggered by the call, a torrent unleashed inside her. It piqued Reed’s interest as much as it did not surprise her.

 

Somewhere amidst the calm of lapsing of seconds, Reed has felt thing _thing_ drumming through Stella, threateningly near like a low vibration. Buried somewhere beneath all that beauty, Reed senses it more than she sees it, this deep fault line running through her awaiting a cataclysm. So many times she’s felt it looming in the breaths between them. On the smooth surface of Lydia’s kitchen counter, in the haunting quiet of university corridors, the sudden and dramatic shift in Stella’s sleek kitchen. Scarred earth begging to be torn open, hidden behind the pretty attraction Stella presents to passing tourists.

 

Like any natural wonder of the world, most spectators are too distracted by the marvel, all those deep cracks and colorful canyons, to see it for what it really is.

 

A millennia of erosion.

 

Destruction.

 

They haven’t spoken about it properly and maybe they never will.

 

But Reed has her suspicions. It’s why she’s brought her here. This place - it’s the only thing that’s ever healed anything that needed healing, at least for Reed. And she doesn’t expect it to heal Stella, not fully anyway, but maybe it’ll help. She hopes it’ll help.

 

Reed holds out a hand for her helmet and Stella naturally complies.

 

Lifting the bulbous encasement of plastic and kevlar, Stella swipes a hand through her hair and then below her eyes, and Reed holds her breath.

 

A few miles back, for the briefest moment, she had been sure of it.

 

Stella was crying.

 

Reed’s held her children through enough tantrums to recognize the signature of a twitching diaphragm as it tries to accommodate falling tears.

 

But then Stella had touched her and under a haze of hands, the moment had passed. Assuring herself that it was all in her head, Reed tried to remember that this was Stella. Stoic Stella with all of that control, wielding worlds with the flick of her wrist. And perhaps Reed sensed this _thing_ inside her but she’d certainly never seen her cry. Would Stella even be capable of it, she wondered. After all, Reed could barely imagine it. What would it even look like?

 

Now with the confirmation sitting squarely between them, she doesn’t have to imagine. The answer is there, crystallized in the way Stella bravely meets her stare with watermarked cheeks and a set jaw.

 

And Reed says nothing.

 

Instead she secures their helmets and helps Stella down from her seat. Holding her eye until she lands both feet on solid ground, there’s a hard resignation to it, the way Stella looks at her. Like she can’t summon the energy to raise her walls any higher, like she’s trying and failing, and then daring Reed to take advantage of it like an afterthought. A distinct and definite challenge there.

 

_Go ahead and ask. Try._

 

And sometimes Reed thinks that Stella is oblivious to the power of her unfiltered stare, carelessly blind to how intimidating it can be, unwitting victims wilting in its wake.

 

And sometimes she thinks the opposite.

 

This time, met with the intensity of her red-rimmed eye contact, Reed knows it’s the latter. An intentional choice that could bring 99% of the population to its knees on any given day because Stella’s usually very good at it. But today, Reed can’t help but see the heartbreaking transparency behind it, a means to a masochistic end. If she thought it would help, Reed might work up the courage to call her on it, tell her to knock it the fuck off and then maybe she’d hug her. Stella clearly needs to be hugged even though she almost certainly wouldn’t accept it. So Reed simply brushes the pad of her thumb over Stella’s knuckles, tries to smile a soft smile and waits it out.

 

Reed’s unwillingness to waver gives way to time as she watches Stella’s stance melt into something else, something less rigid and more unsteady, a slow glimmer of gratitude drifting out from the glacier shelf of her iris. And that’s when Reed realizes…

 

Stella’s exhausted.

 

It’s suddenly so apparent in the hang of her shoulders and the sway of her stance. Like any passing breeze might knock her over. And Reed recalls her voice on the phone, how weak it sounded, and she should have recognized it from the moment she heard her, from the moment she saw her standing on the curb by her flat.

 

Fighting off the flood of reactionary guilt for taking her so far from the nearest bed, Reed resolves that they won’t stay long. Just long enough to warrant the trip, a few tranquil minutes and they’ll be back on the road.

 

She tugs gently at Stella’s fingers and guides her to the nearby slab of rock posing as a convenient bench. And they sit.

 

As she scans the horizon, Reed thinks that not much has changed in her absence. It feels like a lifetime ago since she’d discovered this spot on a bright summer afternoon, her first year at university come and gone. And it’s certainly not summer now. But awash in the rosy pink light of sunset, the sea of hills and distant city mingle together in a honeyed frame and everything still manages to look just as warm.

 

Quiet and stunning.

Two small dots on a slowly spinning axis, they study the picture in peaceful silence.

 

Eventually Reed’s thoughts begin to circle the drain around Stella’s morning, knowing that it hadn’t gone well. She wonders what ‘ _not well’_ entails, she wonders how it’s left her so tired, teetering on the verge of tears. Something about this case, something about her friend’s son, it’s bigger than Reed initially anticipated. And maybe Reed’s projecting, maybe it’s leftover trauma from Spector or maybe it’s none of those things. She has no way to know for sure, about this or anything else until Stella decides to talk to her.

 

But she hasn’t taken Stella here to talk.

 

Reed tells herself this, over and over again, even as she attempts to sedate the completely rational insecurities that lurk in the shadows of Stella’s silence. She tries very hard to trust Stella to tell her things when she’s ready. To tell her anything at all. It’s breathtaking sometimes, when Reed realizes how much she doesn’t know about her. Mostly, it’s confusing because in so many ways, it’s like Reed knows Stella intimately, a byproduct of this cosmic kinship that’s always existed between them. And in other ways, it’s like Reed doesn’t know her at all.

 

And there’s so many reasons why Reed should impose some space between them, a list as long as her arm. Everything with Spector, Reed’s recently ended marriage, the newness of London, the newness of her job, the growing interest of two bright-eyed children.

 

Not to mention Stella’s distinctly anomic independence.

 

Yet every chance she gets, Reed finds herself doing the opposite.

 

Today for example. She could’ve come up here alone and found some focus, enjoyed the solitude. But clearly she’d chosen the thing, the person, that she keeps telling herself to relinquish. And there’s really no sense to it, Reed can admit that. It’s a compulsion of sorts. An annoying prickle at the back of her neck telling her to dial Stella’s number…

 

“It’s beautiful here,” Stella’s voice materializes next to her.

 

Torn from her thoughts, Reed turns and is met with the phenomena of art witnessing art. The runny pigment of ground and sky captured in the gloss of Stella’s eyes as she stares at the scene before them, letting it smooth over her rough edges. Lit up by the golden hour, her badly behaved hair dances like wisps of white fire around her shoulders. An arresting portrait of some mythic deity.

 

And Reed tries not to do this - she tries not to become absorbed in Stella’s beauty, overly distracted by it like some lovesick teenager. Sometimes she thinks she even succeeds at it, concentrating on other things like the way she speaks or more often, the way she doesn’t. That otherworldly restraint she possesses unlike anyone Reed’s ever met. The commanding nature of her presence, the way people seem to shrink or blossom under the light of her gaze.

 

Then there’s the exquisite and discerning nature of Stella’s heart. The way it gravitates towards the world that matters and rejects the numerous worlds that don’t. Reed finds it difficult to deny those worlds, the ones made up of societal expectations and other people’s thoughts, the world of unknowns and past lives. She’s found herself accidentally living in those worlds more than once and it’s a terrifying existence to wake up to, snares set at every turn.

 

Sometimes Reed wonders if Stella’s always been like this, seemingly immune to the existence of these worlds or if she’s ever, even just once, found herself lost in them, navigating their unfortunate terrain.

 

But even as Reed tries not to do this, to become absorbed in the physical manifestations of Stella’s beauty, she finds herself in awe of these other parts, the metaphysical composition of Stella Gibson. If only she could shove it under a microscope and make a study out of it, discover the science behind loving her. Maybe then she might understand it better.

 

“Thought you might like it.”

 

Stella nods.

 

“I do, thank you.”

 

Reed smiles to herself, pride blossoming in her chest. It shouldn’t feeling so strangely rewarding to get these things right, but it does.

 

“Reminds me of a place my father used to take me...” Stella continues quietly, gaze glued to the twinkling horizon. “When I was young.”

 

And Reed struggles not to react.

 

Because insights into Stella’s past are so rare and ephemeral that Reed wants to treat them with the homage they deserve. Especially since she knows almost nothing about Stella’s childhood, and even less about her family. Her next words could prove very important, the ability to make or break what happens next with a few short syllables.

 

All that comes is a succinct “really?” and it’s more of a prompt than a question, carefully neutral and appropriately uncomplicated.

 

Stella nods again, just barely, the top of her lip drawing into a sad smile.

 

“Sometimes he’d pull me out of school and we’d drive to a place very much like this one,” she says wistfully. “It’s one of the last times I remember being truly happy.”

 

The gravity of her admission is sudden and violent like walking contentedly over a cliff’s edge, and Reed’s stomach plummets with the fall. Surely that was a long time ago. A very very long time ago. And how long has Stella existed this way, unadulterated happiness so far removed from her present?

 

“That sounds very special,” Reed barely manages.

 

“It was - he was.”

 

“What happened?” Reed asks, unable to stop herself, knowing she won’t like the answer.

 

“He died. When I was 14.”

 

“That’s hard for a child.”

 

“Yes.

 

“It still is sometimes.”

 

“You must miss him,” Reed says after a beat, trying to catch her breath, her heart aching for Stella’s younger self. And when Stella nods once more, Reed’s heart aches all over again for her older self. It’s obvious to anyone who bothers to look that Stella harbors pain - it’s a byproduct of living after all, something to be expected. But to know that it’s such a fragile kind of pain, a child’s pain…

 

Reed doesn’t know what to say.

 

So they remain silent, looking out at the unemotional landscape before them. And Reed thinks maybe that’s it, the sanctity of Stella’s confession gone as quickly as it came.

 

But then Stella’s chin turns toward her and Reed looks back, taking in her watery eyes.

 

“This makes me feel close to him… Thank you.”

 

It’s the most honest and vulnerable thing that Stella’s ever said to her - that anyone's ever said to her. So much so that the weight of it is almost paralyzing. Almost because then her hand sparks to life, covering Stella’s on the cool stone below, and Reed wouldn’t know how to verbalize the overwhelming need to touch her even if she tried. Responsively, Stella shifts her hand and fits it more comfortably with Reed’s, heaving a deep sigh.

 

“You have no idea how appreciated it is,” she continues sounding more like herself, voice achieving a sobering volume, even and steady. “Especially after this day.”

 

“I don’t understand how it went so badly,” Reed says, referring to her earlier meeting. But as soon as the words leave her mouth, she feels Stella tense, her entire being charged with the energy of whatever happened there.

 

“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

 

It sounds like it hurts to even admit that much and after witnessing such a raw confession, Reed would like nothing more than to chase the memory from their vantage point. Let her forget about it. The competing selfish desire to know more can wait, even if the opportunity never presents itself again.

 

“Then don’t,” Reed says firmly. “Don’t think about it if you don’t want to.”

 

There’s a long pause in which Stella remains impossibly still.

 

“I really don’t,” she says eventually.

 

“Okay,” Reed says. “We’ll think about something else then.”

 

“Hm,” Stella hums, eyes turning back toward Reed, less watery this time.

 

And it’s Reed’s turn to remain still as she watches Stella’s gaze rove thoughtfully over the planes of her face. Then Stella’s eyes land poignantly on her own in that incredibly direct stare of hers that sets lesser men fleeing.

 

Reed feels herself flush, heart rate spiking, the dialating sensation of a thousand blood vessels expanding in beautiful unison. The immediacy of this reaction scares her sometimes, how quickly she blooms under the heat of Stella’s gaze, how susceptible she is to this kind of persuasion, this kind of distraction. But taking in the shiny curve of Stella’s bottom lip, Reed realizes that this is exactly what they need.

 

Distraction. A need. A solution.

 

It’s also a pattern she’s noticed, Stella’s habit of deflecting her feelings in favor of something else, something better. And it can’t go on forever, it probably can’t go on much longer at all. But today, looking into her eyes, more worn down and unguarded than she’s ever seen them, Reed also knows that she wants to distract her. Crushingly so. Almost desperately.

 

Hushing any lingering doubts and all traces of better judgement, she wastes little time pulling Stella close. There’s an explosion of heat against her tongue, and the hot rush of an exhale as Stella’s teeth tease the pliant skin of Reed’s mouth. And Reed feels her flush spread everywhere, a steady rise of goosebumps inching their way down her back.

 

She feels so full, flooded by the deluge of hormones firing into her system - all the ones that say _this is good._

 

So good.

 

Reed’s brain goes a bit fuzzy around the edges and it’s the only thing she registers, how good it is to be with her. Slipping a hand between the heated tuck of her legs, it’s the only thing Reed knows to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this story. I know it takes awhile and I'm very grateful to those of you who keep returning and consistently share your thoughts. You have no idea how appreciated it is to know that people are reading.


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